The Name Left to Me
by TrailingEducation
Summary: The Dragon-Slayer is a man of great legend, but keeps his secrets close. When he is forced into the service of the famed Inquisition, those secrets are bound to be revealed - especially when he meets Dorian Pavus. But there is more to his tale than even he knows. The Vessel of the Maker has sacrificed his entire life for the Chantry. How much more must he give?
1. This Way Comes

**The Name Left to Me**

He prayed with his head low, protected from the rain by an overhanging rock, his horse as dark as night huffing hot breaths into cold air. He prayed for the people he was leaving behind – the farmers in their homes, shuttered up against the storm; the peasants with their rickety huts and half-made rooftops; and the travellers, the ones who sought new heights and new worlds, that Mother Nature protected as fiercely as the Dalish did their secrets.

The winds urged his prayer on, and when he finished the rider rose to full height and clambered atop his horse. The rain hammered against one side of his cloak as he peered at the makeshift shrine fashioned out of stones and mud. Then, with a sigh, he snapped the reins, and he and his steed flew off into the night.

The fields were empty and the farm houses dark, their lights blown out and the horses stamping furiously in their stables. The man ducked his head down to avoid seeing them. He galloped past trees twisting and writhing in agony for miles, and the lightning flashing overhead blinded him until he could hardly see the dark, iron gates looming far in the distance, painted black against the stormy sky. The sight of the city sent chills down his spine:

Val Royeaux.

As the rider closed the distance between them, he steeled himself against the thought of it.

The watchtowers appeared to rise from the ground the closer he came. He saw the guards underneath the canopies with their Chantry symbols on proud display, outlined by the light of the fire-pits behind them. A crack of lightning lit up their faces, and the rider saw hard frowns and peering, distrustful eyes, watching him as he crept into the half-light of their tower.

"Hold!" one shouted. They took aim with their bows. "State your business!"

"To wait out the storm!" he replied. The pair paused and turned to confer with each other, stealing glances at him as he stood below them. The second soldier peered over the ledge of his viewpoint. The rider held his stare.

He looked up at his partner and nodded.

"Open the gates!" the first shouted, "Horse for the stables!"

The iron bars groaned open, a noise so loud and ominous that it rumbled lower than the thunder. Rain fell at a slanted angle as his horse galloped inside. The sound of his hooves echoed emptily against the stone, and for a moment the rider wondered if he had made a mistake – but the thought was fleeting, and soon he was surrounded by the lavish decorations of Val Royeaux's famous bazaar.

"Easy, Onyx," he hushed the stallion as the pair of them drew closer to the stables, "Once the storm's over, we'll be out in the fields again." There was a warm, soft light tucked in the corner of an alcove that signalled the stables ahead, and with the end in sight and a comfortable bed in mind the rider hurried his horse along.

The stables were large, but with several braziers place strategically about and the smell of hay in the air the atmosphere was cosy and inviting. The rider climbed off of his horse and looked for a suitable empty shed, listening to the low huff of mares and the stamping of stallions in need of exercise.

There was a stable-hand; a young man of about twenty with soft blue eyes and pale skin, wearing clothes that hinted towards some lower noble house. He seemed almost ghostly in the firelight. Once he caught sight of the rider, he hurried over with an apologetic smile.

"Apologies monsieur!" he said in a rush, "I didn't see you come in." The rider smiled as he held out the reins of his horse. "Mare or stallion?"

"Stallion," he replied.

"I'll put him here, then, with the others. Payment can be left on the table – I will put it in the lodger once you've left us."

The rider nodded and turned to his horse. He caressed his mane, admiring the sinews of his muscular neck, the curve of his head as he brayed low in the warmth.

"Take good care of him," he told the boy, "He's a fine horse. The best I've ever had."

"Of course, monsieur. Will there be anything else?"

He paused. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out an overfilled sack tied with a small knot and handed it to him.

"Grain," he explained, "Feed it to him if he gets restless. He's used to open spaces, not…stables."

The rider stayed until Onyx was penned up and fed some. He departed once he was certain his horse was comfortable – and on the assurance that the sheds were strong enough to weather the storm – to find an inn somewhere in the city, and stumbled across one almost as soon as he had stepped out into the bazaar. The wind and rain lashed at his face as he peered at the little sign flapping wildly above the door:

' **MERRICASTLE'**.

He went towards it. On closer inspection it was not quite an inn as he imagined them; made of marble with two bronze lion statues guarding the entrance, it had the expensive, regal feel that Orlais was most known for, a taste of nobility for those who could afford it. Even the windows were large and ornate. He had little coin – he determined he would go elsewhere, but as he turned to leave he heard the door open and a warm, accented voice call out, "Come in, come in!"

The rider hesitated, wondering for a moment if he should ignore it and carry on, but decided to follow as the voice called him again.

Once inside, he found that the ornamental theme continued and sprawled out into several different rooms. There were large arches that led to an enormous dining hall, the tables and chairs empty of all but a few well-dressed patrons, and a selection of 'recreational rooms' that were specialised to all tastes; reading, painting, even knitting. His cloak dripped on the flagstone floor.

"Messer!" said the voice. He turned towards it and found a woman standing near him, her smile bright and inviting. She wore an expensive petticoat with a tight waist, and a dress that draped on the floor in a perfect circle; she even wore a half-mask of silver with odd patterns swirling near the eyes.

"I'm sorry," he started, "I don't have enough coin for—"

"I know you!" she interrupted him, "I've heard about you, from my mother's stories! Messer, it's an honour!"

His smile tightened. Her eyes, so bright and cheerful, never picked up on the dark cloud suddenly looming over her guest's mood. She moved past him towards a small stand with an open lodger, continuing to talk as he pivoted and followed her.

"My mother told me the most fantastical things! Wyverns the size of giants! Battles with over a hundred men! I listened to her stories for _hours_ as a child!"

The rider was silent, but he smiled and nodded on the occasions she paused for his response. She wittered on about fantastic beasts and where to find them – demons in the Western Approach, wyverns in the Exalted Plains, darkspawn in Denerim – all the while he watched as she flipped the pages over in her lodger, holding a quill aloft in the air.

"Ah, yes!" the lady exclaimed mid-sentence, "I've one room left, Messer!" He stopped her hand before she could scratch his name in.

"Forgive me, miss, but I haven't enough coin for—"

"Coin? Oh no, Messer! It's an honour to welcome you to our fair city, free of charge!"

The lady freed her hand and wrote his name. His arm dropped to his side, his smile fleeting and empty.

"Come, come! I'll show you to your room!"

The pair left as soon as she had finished scrawling his entry; _**The Dragon-Slayer.**_

* * *

"This is yours!"

She opened the door with a flourish, revealing a room of decent size with a marble fireplace and a four-poster bed. As he stepped inside, the rider gave it a cursory glance; mahogany dressers with golden handles; a silver tray on a nightstand with a small crystalline decanter; emerald sheets on a soft mattress. The fire was not lit, but his hostess promised him over and over that she would send someone immediately to do so.

"It's fine, miss," he said, shedding his sodden cloak and setting it down on the drawing table's chair, "I can light it myself."

She laughed, "Ah, but you've done it so often on your travels – let me send someone to help you!"

"It's quite alright. I find it comforting. Apologies, but I've had a long journey—"

"Oh! It's fine, Messer, truly!" the lady turned and added, "Please, if you need anything do not hesitate to ask!" and with that, she went out of the room and closed the door, finally leaving him on his own. He took the sudden silence as an opportunity to sit down and collect his thoughts, holding his head in his hands with a sigh.

The rider paused for a beat and stood from the bed. He lit the fire with some matches and kindling left in a tarnished silver cauldron hidden in the corner, then as the flames danced and grew he went to stare out of the large windows beside his bed. Rain spattered against the glass as lightning forked across dark skies. Thunder rumbled low and ominous across the city. He watched in silence.

After a while, he turned and untied the holsters he kept strapped to his hips. As he put them beside the decanter he inspected the weapons inside; his twin dragon's tooth blades with their jewelled hilts, each precious stone glinting at him in the firelight. He caressed the patterns that swirled around them as he set them down.

The rider shed himself of his clothes and turned his attention to old wounds; scars he needed to care for, and fresh cuts and bruises that he told himself he would let a Chantry healer inspect. He shuddered at the thought. The Chantry was always quick to remind him of the 'divine purpose' he had been bestowed.

There was another clap of thunder outside. He wondered again about those he had left out there, the people in need that lived beyond the city walls. The guilt weighed heavily on him.

 _In two days,_ he promised himself: _In two days I'll leave this place._

He sighed and settled his aching bones down on the bed. He asked himself if coming to Val Royeaux had been a mistake. He questioned whether or not he had simply ignored other options. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes against the lightning flashing from his window.

It was not often that the Dragon-Slayer came to the city.


	2. The Altar

He awoke to the sound of rain.

As he sat up, the rider stared outside at the grey morning, the towering spires that rose up and surrounded Merricastle like spikes. He sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

There were nightmares. There were always nightmares. He had come to expect them, and sometimes he wished for the dwarves' dreamless sleeps, a disconnect from the Fade – anything to stop the slew of fire and teeth and screaming ringing in his ears at night. If he could wish for one moment to disappear, one moment in all of time, he would wish for that to be erased forever. There was no comfort in it. There was no peace from it. And it had haunted him, followed him for so long, he was unsure if it was not part of his very being. That one moment, a chance…

The rider stood. His muscles no longer ached, but he felt the weight of Val Royeaux in his very bones. It was suffocating. He caressed the hilts of his blades and plucked his shirt from the chair in the corner of the room, pulling it over his head as he stood in front of the window. He looked down at the streets. People – nobles, mostly – were milling about their lives, chattering to each other, holding ornate and uncomfortably large umbrellas over their heads. A child no more than five years old wandered beside his mother, staring up and embracing the rain falling down on his face. He smiled. The rider smiled with him.

There was a knock at the door. It pulled him out of his revere and quickly he pulled on his trousers, calling for the knocker to enter.

The door opened to reveal his hostess, the woman who had taken him to his room. Her mask had been removed and he saw fully her dark complexion, and eyes that were almost mesmerising in their blueness. She had changed; she now wore an elegant gown that matched her eyes with ribbons that draped over her shoulders beneath her ebony mane of hair. If there was sunlight, he imagined it would have shimmered.

"Messer!" she said. He offered his empty half-smile, combing his fingers through his hair. "Did you sleep well?"

"Fine, thank you."

"Oh wonderful! I just came to tell you that breakfast will be served soon. Our other guests are just going to the hall!"

"Thank you, but I should tend to my horse."

"Oh!" her face fell. Those white teeth disappeared. "Are you certain? The stable-hands are quite skilled! Your horse should be fine, Messer, at least for you to eat."

"I'd rather check myself, miss…?"

"Jemimah Dubois!"

He nodded, "Ms Dubois. But, it's been a long time since I've been to the city. Is there still a healer near the bazaar?"

The lady laughed and shook her head. She stepped inside the room, and instinctively the rider moved towards his blades, keeping them just in reach.

"No, Messer! At least not one of note. The reputable healers are all of them nearer the university!"

"I see."

"Would you like for me to take you? There's much talk in the town about your arrival!"

The rider's heart stopped for a beat. He wondered if Jemimah had told someone, but her face did not read one of a gossip. Perhaps someone had seen him wandering the streets that night? But even then, the stories…

"That's quite alright."

"I insist!" she declared, "Come! The city can be confusing for newcomers. The streets are like mazes."

He would have been firm, but he read her eyes and saw a stern determination in them. Dubois – he remembered the name, a long line of nobles whose women were notoriously strong-willed and iron-stomached. There was no arguing with a Dubois woman.

So he decided not to.

* * *

Jemimah had taken him through the maze as she promised, but had detoured a number of times to show him various landmarks of the city – statues, renowned buildings, etc. If not for the fact that the people had kept their distance, preferring instead to stare at him with wide and awe-struck eyes, the rider would have complained, but he found himself enjoying her company and her zest for history. Even with an umbrella in hand, she managed to weave her way through the crowds with a sort of practiced grace and elegance.

By the time the pair had reached the university, he was exhausted. The university was comprised of several tall and impressive buildings, ornamented with emblems of the city, but there was none more eye-catching than the main building; a huge and imposing structure that sat with four spires around it, all of them adorned with the Empress' insignia. Beside it was the Chantry cathedral. The tapestries set him on edge. He could almost smell the burning pyres.

"The university is one of the oldest institutions in the entire known world!" said Jemimah beside him, "The professors and Chantry leaders are arguing as of late, though. I'm sure you've heard – perhaps you'll be able to settle the matter?"

"Perhaps," he replied, but he had already decided against it. In Thedas' wildernesses, would the Chant of Light feed and warm him, or scholars come to heal his wounds? He had no use for debates of semantics.

"Shall we go inside?"

The rider stopped her with a polite touch of the shoulder, "I think it's best if I go alone, Ms Dubois. The Mothers…"

Her face fell and she seemed surprised, but she quickly composed herself. She straightened, holding the umbrella tall over her head.

"Of course. The Mothers will want to see you alone. I mean, you _are_ the Dragon-Slayer, after all. Your visits are rare and they'll want to discuss things with you." She seemed to be convincing herself.

The rider nodded and stepped forward, then turned and offered her an unpractised bow. She laughed and curtseyed, then as he turned and went forward she stared at him, clutching the handle of her umbrella with her cheek resting against her hand.

He walked up to the cathedral's daunting wooden door. The rider paused, uncertain if he wanted to have someone see to him, though he quickly realised that it was not what he _wanted_ but certainly what he needed.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

* * *

There were braziers lit in every corner of the room. The large stained-glass windows loomed over the rider as he sat down on his chair, stripped of his shirt and blades. On one side of him an initiate was wringing a cloth in a basin of water and pressing it to his wounds, and on the other an affirmed set down a silver tray laden with fruit, bread and tea. He would have thanked her, but she ran from him as though she was disturbing holy grounds.

The hall he sat in was long and enormous. Paintings hung on every wall and statues lined the entrance; even in the apse he was scrutinised by Andraste's cold and unforgiving eyes. The rider rested against the back of his chair, letting out a long, low sigh as the initiate went over his injuries.

Then, the sound of shoes tapping against the floor alerted him to another person entering the room. He lifted his head to see who it was, and in the braziers' warm glow a revered mother approached him, her hands folded in front of her and her head held high. She was wearing her ceremonial robes, and her walk was respectful and slow.

"Dragon-Slayer," she said. Her voice had a heavy accent to it. "What an honour it is to welcome you to our fair city."

She bowed to him. He dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"It's been a long time since Val Royeaux saw you in the flesh." He heard her accusation before he fully registered the sentence. It was veiled, but he had dealt with the Mothers and their barbed words before.

"Yes," he replied, "I am led far and wide beyond these walls."

"And in a time so desperate, you were not led to the Grand Cathedral – to our grand clerics and the empty Sunburst Throne?"

"I was further north. There were towns under siege, people ill and injured, children freezing to death in their beds. It never felt natural to come to Val Royeaux."

"What are we meant to believe, then? That the Maker would not send His Vessel when we needed him the most?" the mother turned and walked to the right side of the apse, staring up at Andraste's statue. She was younger, perhaps in her late twenties, which surprised him. How had she come to be awarded the 'honour' of Revered Mother so soon?

"There are gates and walls and guards here. These villagers had nothing but their own shirts. The farms were destroyed and every day was another funeral. I was where I needed to be."

The mother's lips tightened and she looked down at her feet.

"Has He spoken to you?"

The question was so quiet, it almost refused to carry. The rider caught just enough to hear it above the water splashing in the basin.

"It doesn't work that way."

"Then how does it work?"

"It just does."

"There has to be a way! There has to be _something_ —" she stopped herself. Quickly the mother regained control and stood taller, unfolding her hands to straighten her robe before she turned back to him. The initiate paused for a beat, then started to apply elfroot to his fresher cuts and bruises. "Forgive me, Your Worship. I shouldn't allow my stress to influence my words. Your arrival is a symbol of a new era dawning, I believe it with all my heart. Divine Victoria will want to see you."

"I feel drawn towards Ferelden. I will not idle here."

"The Maker would wish for you to meet the Divine, no? You are His hands."

"And we shall meet when He brings us together. For now I must continue with the sword, and she the sceptre."

The initiate looked up at him. When he met her gaze, she snapped her head away and hurriedly continued on with her work.

"Dragon-Slayer," the mother started carefully, "I do not know what to say. Had my predecessor lived through the Breach, perhaps she would have." There was a sadness in her eyes as she spoke. The rider felt himself softening and, for a brief moment, he saw not a Revered Mother in front of him, but a woman who had lost someone dear.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

She nodded. "It was in the early stages of the war. She had been travelling and was due back the day her carriage was captured. Apostates left her in the Hinterlands, naked and bound for the demons to find. She died of dehydration. We only found her corpse a week later…"

The mother's eyes filled with tears and she sniffed, blinking them away as best she could. The Dragon-Slayer did not hurry her. He felt her grief as keenly as he did his own.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" she said, "So many died in the war, and hers is the only death I've mourned."

"Too much death dulls the senses. The Breach left scars on us all."

"You are kind, Dragon-Slayer, but do not feel I compare my suffering to yours. I tended to my flock here, and you slept with the sick and the dying in the most hopeless of places. You have sacrificed much to be a protector to the people."

She wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled at him. Her hands folded again, she said:

"I will leave you with Griselda to finish. Once she's done, I'll return to prepare the altar for your prayer."

She turned and started to leave. Before she could, the rider called out, "What is your name?" She smiled sadly and tilted her head towards her shoulder, looking at the wall beside her.

"Forgive me, Your Worship. My name is Mother Delora."

With that, she continued on her way. The Dragon-Slayer watched her until she had opened the door to the hall and disappeared out of sight.

* * *

He knelt directly in front of the altar, his hands on his knees and his head bent low. The rider was vaguely aware that Mother Delora was nearby, but he was focusing on the smell of burning ash and crushed herbs, the incense and the wood of the benches behind him.

He had no prayed in a long time. He had almost forgotten the Chant entirely. As he tried to worship, he found his mind wandering, and soon he was thinking to himself.

 _My travels have taken me now to the Imperium and back, to the strangest stretches of the world and even the underground city of Orzammar, and what do I have to show for it? A life forever in flux, a Holiness I never wished for? What has the Maker done but breathed life in me? Has He answered my cries, told me my path, helped me when I faced the very monsters He created? But yet here I am, sent to pray at His altar and offer my thanks. What a travesty. Have I not suffered enough?_

 _Let the people lust after my legend, if only so I may go in peace._

"Are you alright, Dragon-Slayer?" Mother Delora's voice distracted him from his thoughts. The rider turned and smiled at her.

"Praying," he replied, and turned so she would not see the dark expression fallen on his face.


	3. Wicked Hearts

There was water dripping.

He could hear it, but the world around him was veiled in darkness. The rider could see no shapes, smell no moss; he could only hear the constant _drip, drip, drip_ echoing in the distance. He raised a hand and felt along the ragged wall that ran alongside him, his bare feet cold on the stone floor below. There was a chill in the air. He had no idea where he was or if he was in danger, but there was a strange sense of calm welling from his chest, a curiosity to see what laid ahead. It urged his feet to move before he had even formed the thought in his head.

A light appeared just as he started to feel his way forward. It almost danced in front of him, diving in and out of sight, moving as though it wanted him to come closer. The rider, mesmerised, followed. He saw it weave through and illuminate a row of boulders, and as he passed he noticed their strange shapes, like contorted human silhouettes. The sight made him nauseous, but he could not tell why. He pressed past without looking at them.

The light led him through the tunnel for several minutes, though it seemed to stretch on for hours. The further he went the darker his surroundings seemed, and the brighter the light ahead of him shone. A sinister feeling crept along his spine; he thought it seemed more eerie than hopeful.

After a while more, the tunnel opened into an enormous cavern. A soft but bitter draft was blowing in from somewhere in front of him, and the Dragon-Slayer started to stumble against jagged rocks that littered the floor. His footsteps echoed. The light ahead came to a gentle halt. It danced in the centre of the cavern as a faerie would, beckoning him forward, and despite his reservations the Dragon-Slayer came closer. He walked until he was just next to it, until he was reaching out to touch it…and just as he did, the light vanished, and behind it a gaping maw filled with teeth opened and let out an almighty roar.

* * *

He awoke with a start, drenched in his own sweat. The torrent of rain hammering against his window pulled him from the dregs of his nightmare; he could still hear the roar ringing in his ears and see that enormous mouth, those teeth that seemed to glisten even in darkness. With a sigh, the rider rolled on to his back and rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes. Occasional flashes of lightning lit up his room, and every now and then he thought the shadows were morphing, mutating into something more – something evil.

The Dragon-Slayer reached up and caressed his daggers. Their presence soothed him, reminded him of the distance between himself and his memories. But no matter how far the road behind him stretched, he could not help seeing the faces of all those he had failed. He wanted their tragic tale emblazoned on every surface, but alas – few bards sang songs for peasants.

That familiar, heavy apathy washed over him. Would he never know peace?

* * *

"I was right. You can pay me now or later, but this is one bet you've lost, Sparkler."

Varric smiled at his friend over the library table; a smile he knew would irk the man even if his expression remained offhand and unconcerned. Dorian reclined in his seat. His fingers were tented and his perfectly plucked eyebrows raised.

"I find it hard to believe Leliana would tell _you_ of all people if the rumours were true."

"She did. Well, I may've eavesdropped on a conversation between her and Josephine, but she _did_ say it."

Dorian let out a low, thoughtful exhale through his nose. He tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling, basking for a moment in the light pouring in from the window, wondering if its glow made him look as angelic as he felt.

"The Dragon-Slayer in Val Royeaux?" he said. "That's unusual, to say the least."

"You're telling me. I thought the world went mad when the Breach hit."

"Madness or not, our most esteemed ambassador seems very eager to get his attention. When will we be rolling out the silk carriages and gourmet truffles, I wonder?"

"You would have to be a fool to believe that Josie would ruin our chances with such grand gestures of luxury."

Leliana's voice startled the pair, but both quickly regained composure as she approached. Her arms were behind her back and her face was that same curious blank – it was her tone that carried her admonishment.

"Our chances?"

"For an alliance, of course."

"An alliance?" Varric laughed. "If that's what we're after, Nightingale, our chances are lower than none. Have you not read the stories? He's not exactly known for his wide circle of friends."

"The Inquisition is not a banner one can refuse easily, Varric, especially not with Empress Celene's support. The Dragon-Slayer may be a legend, but in the court he is one voice amongst many – and ours is louder."

"There's one matter you're forgetting, Leliana." Dorian said, standing to pull out an old and dishevelled book from one of his shelves. The spymistress looked at him, her head tilted slightly to one side and her eyebrows raised ever so slightly. "The Dragon-Slayer's not just one voice. He has the entire Chantry behind him."

"And Divine Victoria is a dear friend to the Inquisitor."

"Yes, but she's also the divine. If she pulls a man known as 'the Vessel of the Maker' away from his wandering, how will the common folk react? Especially if it's to support an organisation with more firepower than the Orlesian army itself."

Leliana smiled. It was a soft, almost imperceptible smile, fleeting and pure; neither Dorian nor Varric could tell what she was thinking.

"I'm sure Josephine will find a way to convince the Chantry our need is more," she said before nodding and walking away from them. As he watched, Dorian thought he saw a calculated stiffness in her movements. Varric turned as soon as she had disappeared up the stairs towards her 'spy-rook'.

"So," he said, "This place is about to get more interested. Want to bet this'll all blow up in our face?"

Dorian set his book down with a sly smirk. "Double or nothing. And I'm including our game of Wicked Grace last week."

"You're on, Sparkler."


	4. Invitation

The Dragon-Slayer had conceded to remain for one more night at his host's behest. Jemimah had pointed out that the storm had not yet passed in its entirety, and he would do well to allow Onyx more rest before he was once more sent into Thedas' harsh terrains. He enjoyed Jemimah's company and respected her advice, so he had agreed – a final night in Merricastle, which he would spend in the inn's rather quaint library on the second floor.

Before he could retire for the evening, however, he needed to examine his horse. Onyx had been sequestered in a far-end corner of the stables, away from the 'commoners', where he had enough food to sate an elephant and enough water to fill a noble's bath. The rider enjoyed the privacy this little nook afforded them. As he brushed the stallion's mane and stroked his sleek flank, he felt for the first time as if no one was watching him; not even the stable-hand, who occasionally glanced in his direction while tending to his flock.

"Soon, Onyx," he reassured the restless beast, "We'll return to the highways soon."

The braziers lit and the smell of hay in his nose, the rider felt oddly at peace. He wondered at life in the stables, and questioned whether or not he would have ended up there if fate had been kinder.

The doors to the stable opened. The Dragon-Slayer, lost in deep thought, did not look up to see the soldiers step inside, clad in full Inquisition regalia and holding a small scroll in their hands. The stable-hand was the first to take notice of them.

"Welcome," he said in a low, friendly voice, "Does the Inquisition need to store horses?"

"No," the first soldier – a redheaded woman – replied, "We're here to see someone. We were told he might be tending to his horse."

The stable-hand fell silent for a moment. He glanced in the rider's direction, who had caught sight of the soldiers and re-focused himself on brushing Onyx's side. His actions were concentrated and purposeful; he did not want to be disturbed.

"Is it…is it quite important business, madam? Only, I'm not sure—"

"The Inquisition's business is always important." The soldiers turned almost as one and moved towards the end of the stable, leaving the man mid-sentence, his mouth opening and closing as he attempted to stutter out a response.

The Dragon-Slayer ignored them as best he could, but once the soldiers had reached him he resigned himself to their presence. He saw the intent in the redhead's eyes – she would leave after speaking to him, and not before.

"Master Dragon-Slayer," she said, standing upright and proud before him, her face vacant of all telling emotion, "It's an honour to meet you."

"I'm sure."

"The Inquisitor sends his regards, and an invitation. He requests your presence at Skyhold," she handed him the scroll. It was tied with a coarse red ribbon; it felt almost familiar on his skin. "It's in rather a difficult position in the Frostbacks – a full entourage will be sent to escort you."

The rider opened the scroll for a cursory glance and then set it down on the stool beside him. He started once more to brush the hay out of his horse's side, his expression firm and indifferent.

"Thank you, Sister Nightingale," he said, "but I don't accept invitations."

Leliana appeared surprised for a moment – but just a moment. By the time he had said the words, she had regained her composure.

"That rule is not set in stone, no?" she ventured.

"Whatever information you have, Nightingale, it's misled. I don't heed invites, not even from the Chantry. Mine is not a road paved with summons."

"This is not a summons, Dragon-Slayer, but a chance to do more."

"The Herald did well enough without me during the troubles," he said, "and I did well enough without him. My answer is firm. I don't accept invitations."

The Dragon-Slayer returned his attention to his horse. Leliana searched for a hint of emotion in his eyes – one scrap of uncertainty she could use against him – but she could see no faltering in those whisky-coloured depths. He was resolute. As she looked at him, a contingency plan started to form in her mind.

"Very well, Dragon-Slayer," she said as she turned on her heel and gestured the soldiers to do the same, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Please, enjoy your evening."

The rider knew he would see her again.

* * *

Skyhold's throne room was quiet and empty that early winter's morning, void even of Varric's laughter or Vivienne's soft humming in the stands above. The Inquisitor loved the peace of a new day. He moved across the hall with a smile on his face, heading towards the room where Josephine had her desk and important documents set up and wondering if she would be awake.

He opened the door to the smell of fresh fruit and a beautiful fire roaring in the fireplace. Josephine was hunched over her desk, scribbling away at some document or other, when he approached. She started once she noticed him, clutching at her heart with a soft chuckle.

"Inquisitor!" she said. "I apologise – I didn't hear you come in."

"It's alright, Josephine. Have you been here all night?" he asked.

"Yes, my lord. There's much to be done in case Leliana is successful in our new venture. I've ordered the tower at the far end of the garden to be cleared and new stocks for the tavern."

"Why clear the tower?" he asked as he took a seat in one of the fireplace chairs. The Inquisitor could understand the tavern –a noble himself, he had become used to his parents ordering new reserves for when people visited – but the tower surprised him.

"To serve as accommodation," she replied, turning towards her notes and picking up her quill, "The Dragon-Slayer is a Vessel of the Maker, renowned for his mysteriousness. It will behove us to oblige his privacy."

"That makes sense. I only hope this alliance happens – you took enormous pains with the invitation."

"The Dragon-Slayer rarely accepts invitations, and he _never_ accepts invitations with spelling mistakes," she replied.

"That seems…odd. Why decline over a misspelling?"

"There are some theories but, no one knows for sure."

"Peculiar," he said, "I read the report you sent me. Is there no more information at all? I feel like we're walking into this blind."

"Believe me, Your Grace, if there were more it would have been included in that report." Josephine set down her quill again. Even in her sleep-deprived state, she seemed prim and proper; the Inquisitor wondered if any situation would fluster her. "I'm nervous for Leliana's return. The Inquisition's public image has been somewhat lacklustre as of late."

"We've had very little to do since Corypheus' defeat."

"We must do more," she told him, "If we lose the public's approval, we lose most of our power. The Dragon-Slayer is an inspiring figure – to have him allied with us will be monumental."

The Inquisitor nodded and sat back in his seat. He watched as the flames crackled in front of him, licking at the stones and billowing wispy, playful smoke up the chimney. For a moment, he thought about his victories. His survival in the Fade. His survival of the anchor. His involvement in world-changing decisions. Rescuing Empress Celene from assassination. The impossible feats he performed to inspire the people – to have them rally around him in Thedas' time in need. An entire army, raised from nothing. Was it so easy to forget all of that once the threat was dealt with? Had the Inquisition lost so much traction that no one remembered their heroism in the battle against Corypheus?

"Is there something wrong, Inquisitor?"

Josephine's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. The Inquisitor smiled at her.

"No, Josephine. And there's no dignitaries here – you can call me by my name."

"Ah, forgive me, Damien. I forget, especially when nervous."

"Let's just hope Leliana returns soon. I'd love to hear how the meeting went."

The door crashed open the second the words left his mouth, and in walked a silent Leliana. She strode towards them with purpose, undisturbed by her long journey or disappointing news. The soft firelight reflected off of her svelte outfit, winking in the links of her chainmail and highlighting her pale complexion.

"Josie. Inquisitor," she nodded at them both. "I've news."

"On no, that doesn't sound good," Damien said. He had readjusted himself in his chair so he could lean in to hear her, as if at any moment she would drop to a whisper.

"The Dragon-Slayer declined our invitation."

"He did?" Josephine sighed, her voice stoic and tired, "I was afraid of that. Perhaps I did not word it correctly?"

"It wasn't your fault, Josephine, but mine."

The ambassador's expression grew puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I hate to admit it, but Dorian was right."

"What does Dorian have to do with this?"

"He pointed out to me that the Dragon-Slayer is not one lone voice – he has the support of the Chantry, and nothing can be done to remove that support save disgracing him as a Vessel."

"We cannot do that, Leliana," Josephine said, "Not only would it be sacrilege, it would render our alliance moot."

"I'm not saying that, Josie," she chuckled, "I'm saying we need to employ some of _our_ advantages. The Dragon-Slayer may have the Chantry, but we have the court – and we have the Game."

"What are you saying, Leliana?" the Inquisitor asked.

"I have an idea…"


	5. Ride On

The Dragon-Slayer had waited for long enough. His presence in the city had drawn too much attention, too much gossip, and he refused to have himself in the Inquisition's crosshairs. He prepared his horse that morning for travel; he was to return to the road and put the thought of Val Royeaux far behind him.

Jemimah implored him to reconsider, but he was resolute. The rider had little in the way of coin, but he left her with a warm smile and the assurance that he would remember her. It seemed to be enough. She helped him gather his equipment, new potions and herbs, and went with him to the gates so that she could send him off with a fond farewell, uncertain if she would ever see him again.

"There's food enough for an entire month," she told him as he strapped the bags to Onyx's saddle, "and some more medical supplies, should you have need for them."

"Thank you, Ms Dubois. I'll be sure to use them on my travels."

"Dubois? Come now, Dragon-Slayer – we know each other well enough to forgo the formalities."

"It's impolite to address a noble lady by her first name in public," he pointed out, though he smiled as he said it. She lightly slapped his arm with a roll of her eyes.

"True enough," she replied, "but you will write, yes? I'd love to hear all about your adventures. I may even be able to send some of my own, should Val Royeaux provide them."

"I will," he said, and she knew it was a lie. Perhaps it was the truth as he said it, but soon enough he would find himself in some remote far-flung location, his weapons strapped across his back and his hands rough with dirt, and letters would slip from his mind. He would intend to do it, he may even get as far as buying parchment, but ultimately it would be forgotten. There were so many faces that the Dragon-Slayer had met; would hers soon be one of those faint memories?

"Well," Jemimah smiled and put a hand on his shoulder, "It's been a pleasure hosting you, Dragon-Slayer. I wish you well on your travels."

"Thank you, Ms Dubois." He paused and put his hand over hers. Squeezing gently, her eyes softened as he kissed it and nodded. "Maker bless you."

The rider lifted himself on to his horse. Onyx snorted and reared his head, stamping his hooves as though raring to be released into the open world. His owner fought to steady him. The pair would both be more comfortable once the gates of Val Royeaux were far behind them.

With a final nod at Jemimah and one to the people that had gathered around them, the Dragon-Slayer snapped his reins and tore through the opening gates, his exit followed by the squeal of their chains and the thundering of hooves.

Jemimah watched as he became little more than a faint silhouette in the distance. She sighed, watching perhaps a few seconds longer than she should, then turned and dispersed with the crowd. The whole affair had been a little excitement in the mundanity of noble life. She would miss his presence, perhaps more than he would hers.

The Dragon-Slayer rode on.

* * *

After some time, the rider and his horse had crossed safely from Val Royeaux into the confines of Val Chevin, and he decided on a whim that he would travel into Nevarra. He fancied he would journey far – until he hit the Free Marches, most likely – until he found where he needed to be. He shivered at the thought. The Free Marches did not hold kind memories.

"We'll head towards Tantervale," he said to Onyx, "at least until we find something." The horse whinnied. "The Vimmark Mountains are too far for now. I don't feel—"

A sudden shout cut him off. The Dragon-Slayer's head snapped to the other side of the road, where he saw a person – a man, it seemed, though he wore a heavy cloak – riding up beside him, on a mottled mare with a patched mane.

He hoped he would ride on. He hoped against the sinking feeling in his chest, the heaviness of his stomach. As he directed his eyes back on to the road, the mare-rider trotted beside him, his face one dark empty shadow.

"Dragon-Slayer?" he asked. His voice was soft.

"Yes," he replied. He did not look at his new companion, though he watched his shadow cast ahead of them. He did not scream threat, but he certainly was no friend.

"There's an envoy waiting for you at Val Chevin."

"An envoy?" the rider peered at him through narrowed eyes. "Inquisition?"

"Chantry."

"The Chantry have no need to send me an envoy. I come when the Maker sends me." He shook his head. "You're a dishonest man, and I don't want company. Ride on."

"I will; but first, heed me. There are troubling times ahead, Slayer, more troubling than what you'll find once you reach Val Chevin. There are more dangers than you know."

"Oh? And what dangers are those, friend?"

"Once the time is right, you'll know." The mare-rider snapped his reins and his steed picked up the pace. His movements were graceful, almost poised. The Dragon-Slayer could still not see into his hood. "We'll meet again soon, Dragon-Slayer. That I can promise you."

With that, he muttered a quiet command and the mare raced off. She ran ahead until she came to a closed-off part of the road, and with one leap she was over it, galloping down into the meadows beyond them. The Dragon-Slayer found himself watching the pair as they became no more than pinpricks in the distance. He would have written him off – there were plenty of people on the road who were less-than-desirable sources of information – but the way he spoke, the way he carried himself, told him that he at least _thought_ what he was saying was true. Was that not a reason to second-guess?

He looked at the winding path before him. As he felt the familiar pull towards Val Chevin, he resolved to continue – no matter what he found.


	6. Our Vessel

The closer he came to Val Chevin, the more the stranger's words played on his mind.

The rider had travelled a more scenic route to the city – a road filled with meadows and farms, and an occasional village or two – to avoid the 'entourage' if it did so exist. He hoped that his dalliance would dampen the Chantry's enthusiasm to accost him, or at least send them on to another area.

He made a point to hunt. He needed the meat for lunch, and he could trade the pelts for supplies; or offer them to farmers, at least, as the cold months were soon to be upon them. The leaves were turning their burning shades and the soil was becoming hard under Onyx's hooves. The snows would follow, and he would find himself in his annual struggle against the climate.

He thought for a moment about Mother Delora. It was true he had not met the current Divine, nor even the one before her, and he had few plans to. Their paths, while similar in theory, were all too different; hers was paved with diplomacy and perpetual adorations, while his was paved by cold sleepless nights and memories of a terrible past. What would he have to say to her, except for all the names of those he had seen die?

"For no more shall I prattle, and no more shall I pray," he hummed, "Hear you must, the rattle, as life will fly away…"

* * *

Dorian and Varric's bet was in full swing, and as more news of the ambitious feat came in Dorian was certain he had lost; he had, after all, bet that the Inquisitor would eventually secure the alliance.

He had heard from Vivienne, and later Josephine, that Leliana's entourage to Val Royeaux had returned empty-handed. Varric was counting his coins already. The dwarf all but grinned at him whenever he went past, and once or twice had offered to buy him a drink – "Since you won't be affording one anytime soon." Dorian kept his head high. The bet was not over, after all, and he was certain the Inquisitor would come up with a plan. If not himself personally, one of his advisors would steer him in the right direction.

The mage retired to the library early in the afternoon. He had a cup of tea with him – a herbal tea from his homeland – and sat down as the amber sunlight filtered in through his window, casting his desk in a warm autumnal glow. There was a book on his shelf that he removed when he sat down, setting it on his lap while he took a sip from his cup. Its cover was old and dog-eared. It was not handwritten, but the title read out _**LOKAL LEGENDS,**_ a misspelling that irritated him.

 _Who put_ _ **that**_ _into print?_ He wondered as he opened it.

If not for recent events, he would not have even deigned to touch the book, let alone open it. It was not a professional work. Words were misspelled, the use of paragraphs ignored, and often entire pages would fly past without so much as a comma. But he needed to battle through it. For that book, for all its faults, contained the most intact and coherent collection on the Dragon-Slayer myth, including several songs that regionally-based bards had written of him.

And so, he started. He fought his growing frustration and tried to glean as much information as he could, even if he found words such as 'care' spelt 'cur' and the Free Marches was frequently written as 'the Three Marchaz'. It was an uphill battle.

"Reading that old thing, my dear?"

Vivienne's voice startled him. He had been concentrating so much, he had not even noticed her approach. She set herself down in a chair beside him, her pose regal and dignified as she fixed him with a friendly gaze. She had a bag draped over her shoulder which she gingerly rested on the floor.

"I wouldn't bother – it's quite useless."

"Oh?" he said. She nodded.

"Why not simply ask me, dear? I _was_ an authority on the Dragon-Slayer after all, when his legend was just starting to flourish."

"Was?" Dorian's eyebrow rose, and Vivienne waved her hand dismissively in front of her.

"I thought he might become a new contender in the Game," she said, "but he disappointed me. His lifestyle doesn't suit it. Our players can't simply disappear and reappear at will, can they? And they can't _avoid_ the cities. I suppose he does well as a Vessel. Still, all that time and research, simply wasted…"

"Did you learn anything of use?"

Vivienne's lips pursed ever so slightly, "Not to the Inquisition, no. There's precious little about him – the man values his privacy, chooses to live his life outside of city walls. Most, if not all information is based on hearsay. But I'll wager that mine is much more insightful than whatever's been rehashed in that book."

Dorian thought for a moment. Vivienne had mentioned before that she had studied the Vessel, but she had not delved further into it; he assumed her studies had not led her far, or else she would have told Damien about it. But if what she said was true, and he could get away with not forcing himself to read _**LOKAL LEGENDS**_ , he wanted to at least spend the afternoon speaking with her about it.

"Should I fetch the wine?" she asked, and before he could respond she produced a bottle and two chalices from the small bag she had brought with her. "I thought this would be a long discussion." She explained as she poured.

Dorian took the chalice offered to him, "Do you believe the Inquisitor will manage an alliance?"

"I understand Leliana's forcing our dear Vessel's hand. The details are, as ever, deeply under wraps."

"I wonder what she has on him," he wondered aloud.

"Probably about as much as we do. No. I imagine her spies haven't collected information so much as sent her little ravens to the Orlesian Court."

"Empress Celene?"

Vivienne nodded, taking a sip of her wine. "Quite."

Dorian thought about her theory for a moment. He could see that Leliana might be unsuccessful in garnering information on the Dragon-Slayer, and perhaps she had indeed decided to reach out to her other contacts. But what would she have the Empress do?

"Well, enough conjecture," Vivienne said, "Let's discuss the Dragon-Slayer himself, before we bore ourselves with how our Inquisitor plans to bind him in our service. Rumour has it, he's a Free Marcher…"

* * *

The entourage was not what he expected.

The rider had entered Val Chevin and found them in the city centre, long after the soil had turned to cobblestones and the traditional huts and stalls became shops and houses. There were a few soldiers, a number of which _did_ boast Chantry symbols and more traditional regalia, and a collection of people with them; namely, a Revered Mother he had run across before, when he was in a plague-infested land fighting off lurkers and other such scavengers. Her name was Giselle, and her movements as she approached him were smooth and graceful, almost comforting.

"Dragon-Slayer," she said in her heavy accent, "The Vessel of the Maker. Welcome to Val Chevin."

"Strange ventures you find yourself on, Mother, to block the Vessel from his path," he noted.

"I do only what I believe is necessary, Your Grace. These have been troubling times in Thedas – my actions are merely a product of that."

"Perhaps," he said, "but that danger has passed, and now Thedas is left in the thrall of those who endanger it for slights over a dinner table."

Giselle walked towards him. Her head was bowed, and in her hands she had a letter, bound up with a wax seal. The rider was instantly wary; her whole sense seemed apologetic, and he had dealt with 'apologetic' before.

"I am sorry I am the one to deliver this," she said as she came close to him.

"What is it?"

"A missive, from Divine Victoria."

"Is it a summons?"

She frowned. "It is best you read it for yourself, Dragon-Slayer. And, please – remember that whatever it says, it is for the good of the people."

Giselle offered it to him, and despite his misgivings – despite the voice in his head telling him to turn tail and run – he took it. Once he broke open the wax seal and scanned the lines, he realised that his life, and all that he had built, was about to come to a halt.

 _ **To Our Maker's Vessel, the Dragon-Slayer of Thedas,**_

 _ **I have started this letter a thousand times over and have found that no matter the words I use, the implications are the same. I can only write, and pray forgiveness to the Maker.**_

 _ **Empress Celene has requested your attendance to a ball at the Winter Palace, in Halamshiral. She claims it a matter of urgency and has alluded consequences for you, personally, if you do not attend. I am uncertain if she is willing to denounce you publicly – but she does have powers that extend further than open slander.**_

 _ **I implore you, Dragon-Slayer, to attend. I do not wish for the Maker's Vessel to be impeded any more than he already has.**_

 _ **Yours in faith,**_

 _ **Divine Victoria I**_

This was the stranger's warning. He had known, somehow, that the rider was about to face a difficult choice. But the choice itself was not difficult. He knew that Empress Celene would do something, _anything_ that would hinder or stop his travel. She would not do it publicly, but rather hide and scatter her operatives, the less-faithful, and have him either unable to enter Orlais or unable to leave. He _knew_ it. And he knew as well that, were he to go, he would be forced into some sort of agreement that in normal circumstances he would have declined. His hands were tied; and he theorised that, as Celene had never taken much of an interest in him aside from Court intrigue, there was someone else puppeteering this meeting.

 _Well done, Sister Nightingale._

"I see." He said. Giselle looked at him, her face repentant, her hands folded together as though in silent prayer.

"I have been instructed to deliver you to Halamshiral," she explained, "The carriage is prepared for you on the next road. Your horse can be tied with the others, if you wish."

"Thank you," he said. Then, caressing the hilt of his daggers, he added quietly to himself, "This is not the calling I asked for."


	7. Memories

There was a room prepared for him when he arrived in Halamshiral. It was larger and more regal than the room in Merricastle, and he had more of a distaste for it when first he entered through the blue-and-white door, confronted by golden curtains and an enormous, silk-covered bed. Giselle was at his side; he had asked for her to accompany him through the castle, so he might have at least one familiar face in that sea of snakes.

"Empress Celene shall spare no expense to ensure you are comfortable," she said to him.

"Hm," he mused, "and yet, she's seen fit to pull me here against my will. 'Comfort' is a small mercy."

Giselle cast him a sidelong glance. "Have care, Dragon-Slayer – perhaps this is but a new sun on the horizon, and not so cruel a twist of fate as you believe."

The rider did not reply. Instead, he went further into the room to inspect it; the vanity; the marble fireplace; the oil painting of Empress Celene's great-grandfather; his windows even overlooked the beautiful countryside, bathed in amber with the setting sun. His companion watched him as he went, silent and contemplative. She noted the way he moved, as if each gesture was calculated, and how he checked each item for a hidden trap. It made her recall him as she had met him – how she had come to believe he would rise to great power.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" she asked.

"I do. In Ferelden, when darkspawn had attacked a few villages and spread the taint."

"It was but a few years before the Fifth Blight. I was a younger woman then, and you – you were merely a boy." She approached the centre of the room. In the dying sunlight, she seemed almost angelic. "But a boy with great purpose."

The Dragon-Slayer felt like a child again in her presence. Giselle's being radiated mother-like kindness, affection, and he found himself listening to her even if he did not reply. Her eyes were soft, almost sad, as she looked at him.

"Legend can only do so much to inspire the people. But you came and you _did_. Those villagers watched you protect them, and lived to tell the tale."

"A child, sent as a saviour," he said. It was part of a longer song – _The Tale of Ferelden's Dragon-Slayer_ , author unknown, and sung primarily at the taverns in Denerim. He had always hated that song.

"When I saw his heroism, I saw first-hand the legend that would soon be told in all corners of Thedas. I saw a Holy man in the dawning of his life. But nonetheless, I saw a child," she said. "That child, so lost in himself, so alone in the world, was at the crossroads of his destiny. And now, as an old woman, I have met him again; and still, he has not chosen what path he shall take."

"I chose solitude," he said.

"No, not solitude," she replied, "but isolation. This is not a choice for the Vessel. He who wields the sword must surround himself with steadfast allies, friends, who will help him bathe in the goodness of the Maker when all he sees is darkness. If one has no love in his life, how can he claim to know the love of the Maker?"

The Dragon-Slayer eyed her warily. "My purpose in the world is not to know Him, but to deliver justice – to protect those who would otherwise die."

"I shall say to you what I said to that child all those years ago," she told him with a smile as she turned and walked towards the door, "Heed the Maker, and remember that He has sent you not just to protect, but to live."

* * *

Dorian and Vivienne had ordered two more wine bottles to be sent to them, and as the afternoon faded into evening the pair of them were engrossed in their discussion of the Dragon-Slayer. Vivienne had imparted much of her wisdom, though some time into it she admitted there was little steadfast information; she had tattered fragments of his origins and discussed anecdotes of people who had seen him in action, but it was far more than _**LOKAL LEGENDS**_ had and Dorian was pleased to hear it.

"So where do _you_ think the Dragon-Slayer was born?" he asked. Vivienne waved her hand again.

"The Free Marches," she said, "but not in a city. He must have lived in a village. Precisely which one remains a mystery. Perhaps it's in everyone's best interests that it does."

"You're not even curious?"

"Of course I am. But he's a figure of intrigue, mystery. If one were to know everything about him, he ceases to be divine and instead becomes mortal. Do you know the downside to mortal, Dorian? Mortals die."

Dorian watched her for a moment. Her face was etched with something – sadness, it seemed – but it was fleeting. She regained her composure quickly.

"So a Free Marcher. Not unlike our own Lord Inquisitor."

"Rather rustic, no?"

"Perhaps we'll have a chance to ask him soon enough," Dorian poured himself another glass of wine, "I'd love to see this mystical creature for myself. Maybe he's worth all this fuss the advisors are making."

"Very few people are worth the fuss, darling. But I've a good feeling about him."

The mage sipped at his wine and made an affirmative noise. Behind him, the moonlight's silver beams stretched in and sent large shadows across the library, forcing him to light a few candles so that he and Vivienne would not be cast in total darkness. It was at this time that the door that led out into the fortresses opened, and Cullen stepped in from the cold air outside. He was muttering angrily to himself.

"Oh dear, what's upset our dear commander?" Vivienne asked. Dorian watched as he came closer to them, but Cullen had still not noticed them, muttering away to himself about common decency.

"Cullen!" said Dorian, which snapped the commander quickly to his senses. "You seem more worried than usual. What's happened?"

"Oh. Forgive me, Dorian, Lady Vivienne. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"All will be forgiven once you tell us what's happened, darling."

"Leliana received word from Halamshiral. We're to gather the Inner Circle and attend Empress Celene's ball – a pretence to help bridge alliance talks with the Dragon-Slayer."

"Ah," Vivienne sat up straight, a twinkle of admiration in her eye, "I knew that clever bird was up to something. Shouldn't this be a good development?"

"No. The Dragon-Slayer declined our invitation and now we're forcing his hand. It won't endear him to us, and we need allies we can depend on."

"The Game will decide whether or not he allies himself with us," Vivienne said, "even if he doesn't realise it. Leliana has played a difficult move to beat – Empress Celene can restrict the Vessel's movement, whether he's holy or not."

"That would infuriate a lot of people," Dorian pointed out. Cullen pulled up a chair from Fiona's table, not too far from where they were sitting, and the mage handed him his own glass of wine.

"Only if done in public, and Celene is far too clever for that. But, make no mistake, she won't allow him to refuse this alliance without consequence."

"He'll know that, and he won't be pleased. The Dragon-Slayer has avoided the Court as much as he can; we should have accepted his refusal when it was given."

"And what would become of the Inquisition, Cullen? It's already losing traction with the public. Damien's victory over Corypheus provided us with the influence and status we need, but now we'll require more to bolster it."

"People shouldn't be so quick to forget our sacrifices," he mumbled as he sipped. Dorian patted his shoulder.

"But they are," he said.

* * *

The Dragon-Slayer had laid down as soon as it had turned nine o'clock, but he could not sleep. His thoughts would not leave him. He could not close his eyes, for he kept seeing his mother. Her face was blurred and her long, curled hair fell over indiscriminate shoulders, her figure made obscure by time. He had not seen her in over twenty years.

 _Forgive me,_ he thought as he reached up and caressed his daggers: _The river was too fast to hold him._


	8. Belle

There were at least eight people around him from the moment he stepped into the room, and the more he was noticed the more that number grew. The Dragon-Slayer could not move more than two feet before he was accosted, forced into idle chatter, and occasionally made to stand through speeches of adoration directed at him, or at least his image. The petticoats whirled on the dancefloor; the masks were expressionless, offset by moving mouths; and food and wine flowed in abundance, managed by a team of elves who weaved silently and unnoticed through the nobles. The palace was decorated with autumnal colours, and the guests dressed accordingly. He himself had been purchased a fine dress shirt and a pair of trousers, though he also wore a new cloak and his daggers in decorative holsters. He would not be caught without them. The nobles seemed quite intrigued with their jewelled hilts, had heard about them in tales, and it was one of the many topics that came up when he was pressed into conversation.

He had yet to meet Empress Celene, though he had been in her palace for several days. The servants had seen to his needs, and kept up a high standard around the castle itself. None of them could tell him much of her plans. One had mentioned that he was the guest of honour, though she did not elaborate more beyond that. As he drank and made polite conversation, he admired Leliana's stratagem; a Vessel was not the Divine, and as so few examples existed in history his political position was considerably more delicate than people often realised. The faithful protected him as much as he protected them. Their outrage at his restriction would not be so fierce if they did not realise he was being restricted.

"Monsieur Dragon-Slayer!" one woman called, pulling him from his thoughts. His head turned towards her, a thin smile on his lips. "Oh, how wonderful it is for you to attend one of Empress Celene's balls!"

"Yes, it's quite unusual," he said.

"I've been waiting for someone new to come to these dull affairs for ages. Do you mind some company?"

"No, ma'am. Of course not."

The Inquisitor was nervous as he arrived at the palace. He was heralded by the trumpeters, but as he and the Inner Circle walked inside he could only think about how the night would unfold. He had a sizeable amount of respect for the Dragon-Slayer legend, and he hoped that Leliana's methods had not irritated him too much.

The courtyard was decorated to perfection. It was autumn, and the trees were starting to become quiet rainbows of autumnal colours, while the servants were wearing matching warm clothes and forced smiles in the cool breeze. He could see the guests calculating in their heads, weighing up their moves in the Game, and wondered whose marriage would be arranged – or sabotaged – at the end of the night.

"The plan is to get in the Dragon-Slayer's good graces," said Leliana next to him, her voice low and calm under the eyes of the Orlesian nobility, "He values benevolence, so any act of kindness will earn his respect."

"Can we hope to do that after this?" he asked.

"The Vessel has to accept the offer Empress Celene makes. He will do so less reluctantly if he sees you as a benevolent leader. _That_ is how we ensure his loyalty."

"He'll be furious either way," Cullen cut in. He seemed uncomfortable in his red formal wear; he pulled at the hem of his neckline and the sash over his shoulder as if he wanted to be free of them. "Whatever we can do to diminish that, we have to."

Damien set his eyes forward. He waved and bowed at the nobles who were watching him, as courteous as he could be with so much weighing on his mind. "Let's hope he's reasonable."

"He will understand the hand dealt to him, Inquisitor. He will accept our offer," Josephine told him, "That is, however, how much reason we can expect of him, given the circumstances."

Damien nodded. He would do all he needed to; the alliance needed to prevail.

* * *

Dorian and Vivienne were occupying themselves with wine in the main hall, discussing all matters from politics to the latest fashion trend in Rivain, when first Dorian laid eyes on him.

He was a handsome man, with dark hair and dark eyes, and a lean muscular physique under an outfit he was clearly uncomfortable in. There was a certainty intensity in him that instantly piqued the mage's interest, and underneath his cloak he could see two decorative holsters, each with a jewelled hilt inside. He knew that this was the Dragon-Slayer – and Dorian had him in his sights.

"Vivienne," he murmured, "To your left. That must be him."

The enchantress turned her head casually to the side to see him. She smiled as she turned back with a glass of wine in hand, taken elegantly from a serving plate beside her.

"He's handsome, isn't he?" she noted. "Should we speak with him, or wait for the Lord Inquisitor first?"

Dorian peered at the hordes of nobles around him, waiting for their moment to pounce. "Wait for a better opportunity. He's looking at the door to the courtyard – we should move there and see if he comes out."

The pair made their way to the door and left to the courtyard, where the wine still flowed and a rectangular fountain served as the centrepiece, bordered by two trellis' that went up to a balcony overlooking the garden. There were coins at the bottom of the fountain, but they went past too quickly for Dorian to properly look at them.

Vivienne chose a spot near the marble banisters for them to stand. It was strategic; the door was in sight and very few nobles outside were interested in it, so they stood a decent chance of catching the Dragon-Slayer as he came out. Bathed in moonlight, Dorian and his companion sipped their wine and discussed what they would open with to start a conversation with the man.

Their opportunity came quickly.

The Dragon-Slayer had excused himself from his latest companion – a man who waxed lyrical about life on the road, and how he wished he could lead such a 'rustic' existence surrounded by nature – and left the hall for some fresh air, escaping the suffocation of the crowd.

"Quickly," Dorian whispered to Vivienne before he turned, "Before he gets accosted again."

"Dragon-Slayer!" he called out. The rider felt his body tense as he turned his head; and when he caught sight of Dorian, he paused. He noted his hair and moustache, the sharpness of his jawline, and the clothes he wore, coupled with his accent, and determined him to be a foreigner to Orlais – perhaps Tevinter.

 _A handsome man_ , he thought as he approached. He almost did not notice Vivienne beside him, but nodded to her as he caught sight of her in the moonlight. _The First Enchanter of Montsimmard. A relic of another time._

"Inquisition?" he asked. The pair seemed surprised. "I heard the trumpets. Sister Nightingale is with you, yes?"

"She is. But don't worry about her, my dear – she's quite the conversationalist, once you catch her in the right mood."

"I'll have to put that to the test," he replied, then held out his hand. "Forgive me – I've not had the pleasure."

"Vivienne," he took and kissed her hand. She smiled, but a smile that revealed nothing, fit for their surroundings.

"Dorian," he and the Dragon-Slayer shook hands. The man's grip was firm, and it lingered for a moment more than needed.

 _A show of dominance?_ Dorian wondered, but he did not seem the sort. "Charmed."

"At least we knew your name," Vivienne chuckled.

"Yes," he replied, though his smile was thin, "That tends to be common knowledge these days. Regardless, congratulations on your victory against Corypheus. I understand it was a difficult battle."

Dorian called over a servant and procured a drink for the Dragon-Slayer. He took it with a smile. Their fingers brushed against each other's, and again lingered for a moment more, enough for even Vivienne to notice.

"It was," she said, partially to dispel potential awkwardness, "but our dear Lord Inquisitor is an effective leader, and an inspiration to all that serve under him."

"I heard while I was travelling. He sounds a good man."

"He is. Once you meet him tonight, I'm sure you'll agree."

"Where were you during the Breach?" Dorian asked, but not in a confrontational tone as the Dragon-Slayer noted. It was pure curiosity. "Anywhere in particular?"

"A few villages – for a while I was held up in the Hinterlands, protecting some smaller encampments from demons that came through. Those were trying times. Worse for the mage-templar war."

"Yes, that was a sad and infuriating business," Vivienne agreed. "Where were you when the Breach opened?"

"I was in Redcliffe at the time. I travelled to the mountains afterwards to see if I could help, but the Inquisitor had already closed a majority of the rifts there. That was the first I'd heard of him, actually. I had faith he could do more than I could and left soon after."

"Did you consider coming to Haven?"

"Briefly," he admitted, "though I decided that putting myself under one's banner would open up a debate about other banners I should serve. Evidently that choice has been made for me now."

The pair glanced at each other – a critical mistake, Vivienne thought – but neither had a chance to respond to him before he continued.

"I was angry at first, but that's passed," he assured them, "I admire your spymaster's resourcefulness. I didn't expect her to contact Empress Celene, nor the Empress to listen to her. Clearly there were some favours left over."

"No one will force you into it," Dorian said. The Dragon-Slayer's eyebrows quirked and he smiled.

"A kind sentiment."

Vivienne sipped her drink and set it on the banister. "Dorian, my dear, I've just caught sight of an old friend. Would you mind terribly if I excused myself for a moment?"

Dorian let her go, leaving himself and the Dragon-Slayer alone. She went inside, closing the door behind her, and the mage watched through the windows as she disappeared down the hall.

 _What is she up to?_

"So, Dorian," the Dragon-Slayer said, "Where in Tevinter are you from?"

"What gave it away? The accent or the disgusted looks?"

"The accent," he chuckled.

"I was born in Qarinus, though my family recently relocated to Minrathous. Closer to the power, you see."

"An Altus?"

"Ah, I see you're more well-versed than the typical southerner."

"I've had some dealings with Tevinter culture," he said. The tone of his voice suggested there was something more, but he did not elaborate. "Tell me – how was life in Tevinter?"

Dorian laughed and signalled the servant, "We'll need more wine."

* * *

Vivienne found the advisors in the main hall, as Damien was trapped in conversation with a few minor nobles nearby. The way she moved alerted Leliana first.

"Vivienne, has something happened?" she asked.

"Nothing bad," she assured her, "Dorian and I just had a most enjoyable conversation with the Dragon-Slayer in the courtyard."

" _Dorian_ got to him first?" Cullen said, "Maker, we're doomed."

"Not at all. The pair seemed quite fond of each other."

"I don't like the way you said that."

"It's merely an observation for now, commander, have no fear. If it does turn out to be more, then we can use it to our advantage."

"True enough," said Leliana, "though I'm more concerned with his attitude towards the Inquisition. Did he mention it?"

"He seems ambivalent, though he did mention that he had considered joining us at one point – for how long, I've no idea, but it's a start. He admires you, Sister Nightingale," Vivienne noted, "The tactics you've used seemed to have piqued his interest, if not just his ire."

"That's at least one small mercy," Josephine said. "Is he still outside?"

"He is, passing time with Dorian." She noticed the commander rolling his eyes beside her. "It's good that we've made first contact. It gives us an excuse to introduce him to you before the alliance talks start."

"Excellent. We shall wait for your signal," said Josephine. "We must focus on demonstrating an Inquisition he would be proud to serve."

"Agreed. Come back to us when you're ready, Lady Vivienne. Timing is essential."


	9. The Faithful

Dorian's entire character radiated exuberance, wit, and hilarity, and the Dragon-Slayer found himself eager to participate in their conversation. He was drawn to his stories about life under Tevinter rule, and laughed with him about the reasons for his numerous expulsions and how he had come to be a social pariah. He even pitched in with his own stories – most of them about his travels, but he recalled snippets here and there about his own boyhood and shared them with him. He never revealed specific details, and Dorian never pressed. He found he did not want to.

"There's not much you haven't done, is there?" the mage said after his companion shared an amusing anecdote about participating in an Avvar ritual. The Dragon-Slayer laughed, shaking his head with mirth.

"I suppose after the amount of time I've spent as a Vessel, no. The Avvar I have a tenuous arrangement with. The respect I receive from tribe to tribe varies tremendously."

"I'm curious – how does one become a Vessel? Is there a ceremony? Pointy hats?"

"No," he chuckled, "It's rather more…subtle than that. I can't even tell you when it happened, precisely. It seems as if I went to sleep a normal person one day and woke up…divine." The Dragon-Slayer reached over for his chalice on the banister, swirling the wine as he did. "The Vessel is chosen more by the people than the Chantry, in truth. The Chantry has a hand in it, of course, but there's been so few of us that there's no real written code for swearing one in."

"Do you know how many there have been?"

"I'm the seventh one, in all the Chantry's history. My predecessor lived over four hundred years ago."

"That's quite the delay in naming a new Vessel," he observed.

"It's clear that a new Vessel is quite the rare event. People have lived entire centuries without them. I'm not certain of the details of potential Vessels that would have added to our numbers, though I'm aware there were some."

"That seems like a subject you _should_ be certain of," Dorian pointed out.

"Perhaps. Regardless, the knowledge wouldn't help me in the slightest. The Vessels have all walked very different paths." He took a long draw of his drink. "There's not many similarities between us all. The first one came from Orlais – a noble – and the second, a former slave. We've all only one thing in common; we all performed an act so impossible that it seemed divine."

He turned to look down at the platform beneath them. A few nobles had congregated there, and he could hear their barbed conversation drifting up on the cool breeze.

"My predecessor lived in the Exalted Age," he explained, though his voice seemed soft and melancholy, "The child of a slave, I was told. She was being smuggled out of Tevinter as an infant when her boat capsized. She survived only because she had landed in a basket, and it floated downstream to a nearby village, where she was raised by the widow of a marquis and her elf servants. None of the ship's crew made it to the surface."

"That's why she was named a Vessel? She survived a boating accident?"

"No – she later went on to slaughter an invading Qunari battalion with weapons she had crafted from the widow's house. She was about fourteen, I believe."

"Now _that's_ divine intervention," Dorian exclaimed, "Tevinter has been at war with the Qunari for most of recent memory. I know more than a few magisters would have offered her full citizenship with privileges for that sort of skill."

"Perhaps in another time. She died in the Fourth Blight. The Chantry Mothers told me she was killed by the archdemon, trying to protect healers."

"A noble death."

"A noble life." Dorian noticed the slight bitterness of his voice, the way his shoulders tensed and his eyes narrowed. The Dragon-Slayer seemed bothered by the thought of his dead predecessor – but for what reason, he could only guess.

"Do you disagree?"

The man turned his head to peer at him. It felt as if he was staring into Dorian's soul, picking him apart and seeing what he was made of, before he returned his attention to the nobles below.

"Of course not," he replied, "The Vessels have all been honoured to serve the Maker."

Dorian made as though to respond, when he saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. The mage turned his head to see Vivienne had returned from the hall, and in her stead she had Josephine, her smile warm and polite. Both were awaiting Dorian to introduce them, and he noticed that other guests around them were preparing to invade the conversation he and his companion were having.

"Ah, just the people to breathe life into this party," he said, and the Dragon-Slayer looked up as he gestured them over, effectively trampling the nobles' plans, "Dragon-Slayer, I'd like you to meet Josephine Montilyet – ambassador to the Inquisition."

"Your Grace, it's an honour to meet you," Josephine said as he kissed her hand. "I've heard much about your exploits."

"It seems everyone has," he replied. She wondered if she had said the wrong thing. Dorian knew she had. "The stories don't do you justice, Lady Montilyet."

"You are too kind, Your Grace."

"Not at all. I passed the Inquisition's Caer Bronach not but a few months ago. An impressive Keep."

"Thank you – it is, rather, the Inquisitor's doing that we secured it at all. If not for his brave efforts, we would have far fewer holds to shelter the faithful."

"He sounds a good man," said the Dragon-Slayer, "not least because I've heard so much about him tonight. I'm sure once Empress Celene arrives, he and I will have the chance to become properly acquainted."

Josephine's face did not waver, though she understood the comment for what it was. Her smile remained and her pose did not deflate, as perfect and poised as the day she had learnt it.

"I'm sure that Empress Celene will put forward an…interesting proposition, if not one that immediately seems it. It would be for the benefit of both of our causes if each party hears her proposal."

"My Lady ambassador…" the Dragon-Slayer turned and took another drink from a nearby serving plate, "What choice do I have?"


	10. A Debt to be Paid

The rider had excused himself from his companions soon enough. He found Dorian delightful, and decided that – should he be able to – he would seek him out before the ball's end and talk with him for the remainder of the night.

He did realise, however, that soon he would be with the Inquisition and would be able to speak with him at leisure. It did not change his mind.

Avoiding the nobles as best he could, the rider went to a more secluded spot in the front hall and took a moment to reflect. He would soon pledge himself to the Inquisitor, and he wanted to reminisce on his travels, his adventures, his freedom. He remembered, as he looked out of the large arched windows that overlooked Halamshiral, all of the times he found himself in ancient ruins, searching for answers to lost tales, the months he spent rebuilding and protecting towns that were left defenceless after disaster, the thousands of miles that were between him and the day he came to be the man that had replaced even his own name. Was it not enough of a sacrifice? Were there not people out there who would defend his right to live a solitary life?

"How much more must you take from me?" he whispered to his refection. It had no answers.

He heard the trumpets blare in the main hall, and, though reluctant, he turned and faced the music.

 _Time to pledge my life away,_ he thought, as he joined the stream of nobles entering the hall.

* * *

The announcements were painful. He suffered through them, even if it went on for an age, and paid attention to his cue; he walked after the Inquisition, under the weight of a hundred noble eyes.

"Presenting: The Dragon-Slayer of Thedas, Vessel of the Maker," said the caller, his voice loud and all-encompassing. The Empress smiled down upon him from her balcony, and he knelt in front of her – an act of respect he could attribute to his 'divinity', but in truth was to avoid his clumsy bow.

"I am honoured to welcome you to the Winter Palace, Dragon-Slayer," she curtsied, her arms bent at the elbows and her back straight, "It is quite the occasion, no, to have you in our midst tonight?"

"I would never have dreamed of refusing your invitation, Empress, even if I wanted to." His tone was polite but his words were barbed. The Empress understood what he meant; but the nobles around them were noticeably unaware, and so she did not rise to the bait. She could not antagonise him more-so than she already had. She was walking a dangerous line.

Dorian watched from the Inquisition's spot near the banisters. He admired the Dragon-Slayer's understanding of the Game, even if he himself had tried to avoid it.

"He holds himself quite well," noted Vivienne, pulling him from his thoughts.

"It's almost suspicious," Leliana said.

"He _is_ the Vessel, Leliana. He may have received lessons."

"Lessons? Who would teach him?"

"The Chantry, perhaps? They were always eager to fashion him as an Orlesian."

"I doubt that, or my people would have informed me. No. There are more factors at play here."

"Perhaps the stories are wrong, and he's of noble birth?" Vivienne ventured. It was true his accent was notably from the Free Marches, but even the independent nations had their lordships. It was Damien who shook his head.

"Impossible," he said, "My family is well-connected and I've never seen him before, not even when we were children."

Dorian, who was trying to listen to both the conversation around him and the one between the Dragon-Slayer and Empress Celene, spoke up. "He's uncomfortable. He might just be imitating the people around him."

"He still knows how to carry himself around nobility, even if he is uncomfortable. I'll follow up with my spies. This might point us to learning more about him."

As the debate went on between them, the rider found himself in a battle of words. It was not so much a battle as it was a quiet establishing of authority on both sides; he wanted to reassert his position as the Vessel, consolidate what little influence he had, and the Empress, a seasoned champion of the Game, was crushing those attempts.

"I was surprised to find you had invited me, Your Grace, considering my aversion to invitations."

"I thought perhaps it would be a refreshing change of pace, to mingle with the nobility who revere you. These are the Children of the Maker as well, Dragon-Slayer – at times we all wish to see the faces of those He has sent to protect us."

"Perhaps," he said, "My dutiful service to the Maker has put me in many strange places. It's not often that I can settle for extended periods of time; I risk denying my divine purpose."

"And we are honoured that you have decided to grace us with that purpose this evening," she responded. It meant the end of the conversation, and he accepted the loss. He knelt once more and left the landing, and soon after the ball resumed – this time with Celene accepting guests and discussing various topics, from politics, fashion, and religion.

The Dragon-Slayer was tempted to leave the main hall and avoid her, but he knew it would be in vain. The Ladies-In-Waiting would find him when she demanded it, and he would have evaded his fate for only a few precious hours.

He watched as the Inquisitor and his advisors ascended the stairs to Celene. The rider chose to drink with his last few minutes of freedom.

* * *

Empress Celene was enjoying her victory over the Dragon-Slayer, though she felt a slight guilt in it. She believed in his path – that of protecting the innocent, the lost, the defenceless – but she also had a debt to the Inquisitor for her life. She was Orlesian first, after all, and their contracts, written or unwritten, were binding.

"A beautiful ball, Your Majesty," Damien said once the pair had exchanged formalities.

"Thank you, Lord Inquisitor. It's quite refreshing to have a ball without so much weighing down on our thoughts." She smiled at him, but it quickly faded. "I suppose you've come to ask about your alliance?"

"We have," Leliana replied. "The Dragon-Slayer would make a fine addition to the Inquisition, and we could use his skills to protect the people who still need us."

"I must confess, it is difficult to pull a man with so noble a purpose from his path. But, I do owe you my life, Inquisitor. That is a debt I intend to repay."

"We all regret that it has come to this, Your Grace, but without more support the Inquisition could fall out of the people's sight. We must remain visible if we are to continue our efforts in stabilising Thedas."

Celene looked at Josephine, her eyes and her mask unreadable, and nodded. She understood that the Inquisition's continued existence was necessary – for the moment. If all they asked for was the allegiance of a minor-but-well-loved Chantry symbol to help rebuild after Corypheus' war, she would take that trade.

"This will be a delicate operation," she told them, "I cannot allow my guests to see me command him to join you. The Vessel, at least in theory, outranks me. The people see him as divine, and I _must_ appear respectful of that."

"We understand. We shall defer to your judgement, Your Grace, and follow your lead."

"I thank you. Please, enjoy the ball. Grim business cannot take up our entire evening, can it?"

Cullen, Josephine and Leliana bowed, but before Damien could do the same Celene gestured for him to remain. His advisors left him, passing him glances that meant they expected to be informed of what was discussed.

The Empress waited until they were out of earshot. "Inquisitor, I feel I must warn you; these are dangerous moves we are performing. One misstep, and the people will be in an uproar. You will lose much of their good faith."

"I understand, Your Grace."

"Remember, there is much to the Dragon-Slayer that we do not know, even with our best spies. A man with no past is difficult to predict."

"Do you feel he's a threat?"

"No," she said, and she was honest, "but I feel he is hiding something – from us, from the world. Why else would he tell no one his name? Or explain how he knows so much of the Game? Tread carefully, Inquisitor. He has secrets that may well damn him – and you."


	11. To Serve

He was summoned too soon.

Empress Celene and the Inquisitor had been on the dancefloor, and the rider knew his time was close. He saw his fate sealed in their whirls and twirls. Their smiles covered hushed whispers. After the pair had left the floor, he saw the Ladies-In-Waiting lingering in the periphery of his vision, and he felt the apathy wash over him as he set his chalice down.

"Monsieur Dragon-Slayer," said the first one as the trio curtsied, "It is an honour to meet you.

"We have heard so much about your exploits across Thedas. We would love to hear more."

"But perhaps we can, later tonight. Her Majesty is asking for your presence on the balcony."

He nodded, and the ladies departed. The rider's face was dark as he stared at the Empress and Inquisitor across the room, absorbed in their quiet conversation, plotting against him. It was never meant to come to this.

But it had.

* * *

"Ah, Dragon-Slayer," said the Empress as he approached. The balcony was quiet and warm, the soft glow of the braziers chasing shadows across the walls. "I see my Ladies found you. How are you enjoying the ball? I understand it is your first."

"It's been an experience, to say the least," he replied. He turned his attention to Damien, who smiled at him – a disarming smile, as it was warm and friendly. "Shall we quit with the charade, or must it go on?"

"Charade?" Damien's response sounded almost genuine.

"This…display. The ball, and my invitation to it. To be summoned here so soon after I declined Lady Leliana's invitation, and the surreptitious conversations you and the Empress have been having all night – it leaves little to the imagination."

Empress Celene regarded him for a moment. Her mask hid her upper face, but her eyes, usually so cool and collected, were fraught with conflict. She was considering her moves carefully.

"I assure you, Dragon-Slayer, that whatever we've done has been in the interests of all of Thedas."

He waved his hand, "Please, enough with the subterfuge. Let's speak plainly – the Game has left me with enough of a headache. The Inquisition wants me as an ally."

The Inquisitor did not respond immediately. In truth, he did not know how. He could tell that the rider was not pleased with the situation – his shoulders were tense and he hunched slightly, as if he was preparing to defend himself – but he seemed to have accepted it. Perhaps there was a glimmer of curiosity in him, as well. He eyed Damien, as though examining him, inspecting him for slight flaws and defects; it made him feel uncomfortable.

"There is much work to be done in rebuilding Thedas after Corypheus," the Empress said, her gestures elegant and controlled, "The Inquisition has been a stabilising force, a symbol of hope for the people who now must find a new balance in this unsettled time. It was our thought that perhaps you, a man sent to provide protection to the lost and defenceless, would offer them a little more comfort."

"Is that comfort found in alliances with already-powerful organisations?"

"The Inquisition has the resources that could help spread your influence further," said Damien. "Lady Montilyet could find ways to have your presence bolster our efforts; Commander Cullen would no doubt be interested in some of the techniques you've learnt on the road; Leliana would want the information you've uncovered about the cities you've travelled and the people you've encountered there."

"Enough, Inquisitor." The rider stopped him. He approached, his hand gesturing that he had somehow overstepped. "These skills I've developed are born from two decades of endless wandering. The creatures I've faced, the people I've protected, the towns and villages that still stand because _someone_ cared enough to defend them – your commander can't instil in his recruits that sacrifice. Nor can your spymaster learn from me secrets that will miraculously help to save the thousands of people still displaced from this war. Perhaps Lady Montilyet will have more luck, as nobles are so fascinated by a man who does not want to bend and twist himself unrecognisable to fit their ideal, but that is where my usefulness will end for you. This is not just about helping the people. This is about bolstering the Inquisition in a time when it has lost its purpose. I am not the man for that job. My purpose isn't, and can never be, yours. In time you will come to understand that as a blessing, Herald."

There was a beat of silence. Damien stared the Dragon-Slayer in the eye, calculating his anger, before he spoke.

"I didn't mean to overstep. I apologise."

That response confused the rider. He had not expected it; he expected, perhaps even needed, his anger. He needed to be assured that the Inquisitor was just a jailer with another name. He considered for a brief second his actions – allying himself with the mages in Redcliffe, offering the Wardens another chance by letting them fight for the Inquisition – but that was a time of desperation. He needed their trust, their cooperation. What did he need from him? Another sword? Another legend?

Another name?

"Dragon-Slayer," the Empress cut into his thoughts, "This is obviously not a normal occurrence. But the Inquisitor has proven his worth a thousand times in the war against the Elder One, and I believe in his path now. This alliance is met with the full support of the Orlesian Court."

It was a fairly innocuous comment, but it meant worlds. She had officially told him, in no uncertain terms, that any other action but to acquiesce would be met with hostility, and that she was prepared to employ, however discreetly, the full force of her influence against him if he chose otherwise. Her move had been made. He could not outmatch her.

There was a long pause as he regarded both the Inquisitor and the Empress. He was not a vengeful man, but in that moment, he almost wished he was. He would have lost his life in that palace, but taken both of them into the next world with him.

"I agree to the alliance," he said, and then with a slight sigh knelt with his head bent to Damien. "I am at your service, Lord Inquisitor. Deploy me as you see fit."

He rolled his shoulders with discomfort. "I'll find a way to show you that you're an equal in this alliance, not a servant."

"I am the Vessel, Inquisitor. In the end, it means little more."


	12. The Chains that Bind Us

He prayed before he left the castle. The rider knelt at His altar and recited the Chant in his mind, hoping that this time, with a firmer path ahead of him, he would be answered.

But the darkness stayed silent. There were no answers, there was no comfort. Just a cold, empty, black nothingness, that spoke no words, and offered no sanctuary.

He was a Vessel of the Void.

* * *

He set upon his journey in the early morning. The night's frost had not yet thawed and weak sunlight filtered in through the trees; if his mind were not so preoccupied, he might have found it pleasant. Instead, the rider thought about what he would find at Skyhold, how he would be used there – and Dorian.

The mage popped up in his head without him consciously willing it. Perhaps the pair of them could share more stories once he reached the fortress; he had enjoyed tales of Tevinter from the view of an Altus, and even more enjoyed the playful remarks and comments he made on his homeland's faults. When he himself had travelled there, he found too many rigid opinions, and far too much reliance on past glories. Their ancestors' actions shaped them more than their own. It was alien to him, even if half of his blood was forever the Imperium.

The trek was long. In a little over a day and a half he had reached the base of the mountains, where he set a final campsite and fed his horse the last of the warm oats. The nights were cold there, but as he sat beside the fireside, staring into the dancing flame, he could hardly feel it. He was on the last stretch.

He would soon be home.

* * *

The fortress was impressive, even if he rode in on the beginnings of a snowstorm. A white flurry followed him as the gates rose open, and he could hear the cries overhead heralding his arrival:

"Send for the Inquisitor! The Dragon-Slayer is here!"

He marvelled at the structures around him, the courtyard, and the people that were fighting to resist the storm. Tents were strapped down, horses shuttered up, and the moment he dismounted he found a man with a dark complexion taking Onyx's reins. The rider made a move towards him.

"Vessel," he shouted above the wind – a voice distinctly Ferelden, "No need to worry yourself, I'm the horsemaster here. Dennet. We won't be seeing much of each other." With that, Dennet pulled the frightened Onyx from his master, and almost in an instant he was gone.

Another voice came from the stairs. The Dragon-Slayer turned to see the Inquisitor, flanked on either side by his advisors. Cullen waved him over.

"Come inside!" he said, "We can speak more in there – this is only going to get worse."

He considered it his first order, and so he obeyed. The small group hurried up to the main fortress, with a slight misstep that would have sent Josephine tumbling down had the rider not caught her, and slammed the door shut behind them. The sound of the wind dying left echoes in his ears.

"We apologise for that, Your Grace. The weather here can be…temperamental. On a more personal note, thank you for catching me."

"A pleasure, Lady Ambassador," he replied. For the first time, he peered into the place that would be his home. Long banquet tables were set for a feast, and servants were hurriedly sweeping the floors and straightening old portraits, dusting this thing and that, all the while stealing glances at them. At the end of the room sat the Inquisitor's throne in front of large arched windows, the red, spiked seat of judgement that for a time ruled all of southern Thedas, and he found himself almost uncomfortable in its presence.

"We have a tower set up for you," Josephine said. She was holding a strange board with a candle melted to it and seemed to be checking it periodically. "I trust you'll find the renovations satisfactory. The Inquisitor and I took great pains in ensuring your privacy will not be disturbed."

"That's generous of you."

She could not tell immediately if his words were sincere or not, but the ambassador smiled and bowed her head to him. The rider would be feeling trapped, she reasoned, and soon he would warm to his new appointments. She did pour her heart and soul into them, after all.

"Once the snowstorm passes, I'll be able to show you our training grounds," said Cullen. "Our recruits are strong and fast, and I hope with your arrival their morale will receive a much-needed boost. It's been rather difficult to steady Thedas after Corypheus' defeat."

"I look forward to it, commander. The world suffered, and if not for your people it would have fractured entirely. Let's hope that repairing the damage does not end up causing more."

He and the Inquisitor did not speak for a long while. He was fed more information about the keep and what could be found there, told that his tower was ready to be moved as soon as he so desired, and that a feast had been prepared for his arrival – to honour the alliance, and welcome him into the Inquisition's folds. He had to refrain from grimacing. Leliana noticed.

Once their part was done with, the advisors excused themselves and left him and the Inquisitor alone. Damien smiled at him, but not in the manner of a man who had won something. He seemed almost apologetic.

"I regret the methods we used," he said, "but I'm thankful to have you here, Dragon-Slayer. I hope that, in time, we'll consider each other friends."

"It's strange to meet a leader who wants to become friends with his people."

"I approach leadership differently to most. I'd feel stranger if I hadn't taken the time to get to know the people under my command."

"There are legions under your command," he pointed out, "But, I can appreciate that you treat them as humans. There are too many that view the people beneath them as fodder. Though I can't say much about our personal relationship, Inquisitor, I do respect what you built. This is a legacy that your descendants will forever mould themselves to."

"I…hadn't thought of it like that. That's quite a new perspective."

"The shadow you cast in long. Be careful that it doesn't throw your family into darkness." Before the Inquisitor could respond, he went on, "Regardless, this is not the conversation to have here. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and get accustom to my new tower."

"Oh, Dragon-Slayer!" Damien called before he could exit out of the door leading to the garden. The white snow blew in over his shoulder, and the wind buffeted his hair. "Dorian mentioned he wants to speak to you once you have a moment. He said something about having an interesting discussion at the ball."

"Ah," the rider smiled. "I understand. Thank you, Inquisitor. I'll be sure to see him before the feast."


	13. The Lives we Lead

There were some racks for him to put his blades on. A small detail, but he noticed it. The chairs were not new, and the table had grooves on it where wayward children had carved with their dinner knives. The furniture was all worn, but comfortably so. It reminded him of home.

The rider found some clothes in the drawers; some shirts, and a few spare pairs of trousers that seemed finer than his own. It was a surprise, perhaps not entirely welcome, but he understood the sentiment behind it. The shrine was also another surprise he was not certain he needed. Andraste's eyes just above him, watching him – it did not revile him, but made him pause and wonder if he could cover them for a split second.

 _That would be heresy,_ he decided as he slipped his Chantry necklace over one of her wrists, _Let's not give Sister Nightingale any more reason to distrust me._

The bed, he would need to get used to. The mattress was new – perhaps the only new thing there – but it made noises that jolted him and he was unfamiliar with them at best. Even in Merricastle he had had trouble adjusting, and he often slept on the marble in the palace. It was a small luxury, and he could forgive it as Josephine had taken great pains to ensure all else had a history.

The Dragon-Slayer idled in his new home for a while, surveying it for little idiosyncrasies and secrets, before he put on his cloak and snuffed out the candle he had lit on his dining table. Dorian awaited him in the library. He was eager to continue their conversation.

* * *

Dorian had been researching in the time he awaited the Dragon-Slayer's arrival to Skyhold. He had been learning more of the Vessels before him; of the people he had ignored, and the different paths they walked.

The first one, the Orlesian noble, was called Guion Fétique, and had lived around the Second Blight. He had served under Emperor Drakon and gained renown as a prolific darkspawn hunter who had slain over one thousand enemies; and it was one of these instances, when he fought and emerged victorious in a battle against over one hundred of the creatures, that he was dubbed the first 'Vessel of the Maker' by the then-blossoming Chantry. He had lived a comfortable life but adjusted well to the squalor of trenches and camps, and the Fétique family had donated much of their wealth to the continued efforts against Zazikel, the Old God of Freedom and the Second Blight's archdemon. His predilection, however, soon led him to the Grey Wardens, and though he survived the Blight he soon succumbed to the Calling. He was survived by two children, daughters, one of whom did not marry but adopted several children, and the other who did marry and whose children did not bear the Fétique name. The line no longer existed, as far as Dorian could tell.

The second was indeed a former slave, and was from Tevinter. He had killed his master on discovering that he had mass-sacrificed his peers for a blood magic ritual, and then escaped the Imperium unharmed and undetected. Once he reached Antiva, he fell in love with and soon married an elven woman, which delayed the Chantry's approving him as a Vessel. The couple had three children, a set of identical triplets, while in the alienage, and he took his wife's name; he was referred to solely as either 'Gawen' or 'elf-consort' during this time. However, his wife soon became frustrated with her children's human appearance and lack of respect for their elven heritage, which she blamed on their father. She poisoned him in revenge, only for him to survive and her to flee the city, leaving their sons behind. Gawen changed his name to Elias Eclectus, moved himself and his sons out of the alienage, and set about with the aid of the Chantry in eliminating 'problem elves' who seemed in danger of causing an uprising. He found his wife thirty years later in nearby Rivain, by then a mother of seven and married for twenty years, and travelled there with his sons. Once he had found her home, he slaughtered her and her husband and moved her children to Antiva; the eldest he sent to an alienage as she would not ignore her heritage, and the others he raised himself and married off to humans in other parts of Thedas. His own sons were reportedly less fiery than he was and settled down as professors, supporting their half-siblings as best as they could, until they eventually cut ties with their father due to his temper. Elias died in the Chantry at the age of seventy-eight, and his descendants had been scattered to the wind.

The third, Evelyn, seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, coming into Orlais during the Towers Age and settling down in Val Royeaux with her father and fourteen siblings. Four of Evelyn's brothers and sisters were mages and were subsequently sent to Circles; however, it was she who had caused this, as she had spent time with the Chantry sisters and had let slip that her siblings were practicing magic. Her father ordered her from the home and she joined a cloister, but was soon sent to the Seekers of Truth due to unspecified 'natural talents'. There, she excelled in both her studies and her training, completed her vigil, and was sent as a new Seeker to investigate a Circle not far from Val Royeaux – one that was later disbanded after this incident. The mages had organised a mass escape, and when she arrived had panicked and started to assault their wards with all manner of spells. Evelyn destroyed the uprising single-handedly when all the Templars around her fell, and killed the mages responsible. She was dubbed a Vessel soon afterwards and spent forty more years in service to the Chantry, before she died at the hands of a nobleman who could not ignore the fact that she continually and publicly spurned his advances. He was later murdered by her six surviving siblings and his family disavowed of their estate; her mage brothers and sisters had disowned her before this and died in the Circles, having lived comfortable but confined lives. Evelyn's descendants became a long noble line who were major contenders in the Game, owning much of the land her murderer had lost.

The fourth was an outlier, and not much remained of him. He was said to be an elf, but some reported him to be half-human, who had arrived at the Chantry with forty-seven knife wounds to warn them that his alienage had started an uprising and were planning a mass-execution of their prisoners. He survived both the uprising and the wounds and became a Vessel when he himself forced an end to the riot; he killed the leader with a single arrow from an impossible vantage point. After that, his Vessel-hood was hotly contended due to his elven heritage – much of the debate referred back to Elias' traitor wife – and he died at twenty-four, from an infection that spread after a human stabbed him in the stomach. He was the only Vessel that was stripped of his rank so that people would stop vandalising his grave. The rank was returned after the fifth Vessel, Rosaline, campaigned for it.

Rosaline was a Tevinter Soporati who had left her homeland due to her dislike of her family and the Imperium's Chantry. She had a female lover, a 'stone-blind' dwarf, having met in the Free Marches and travelled to Ferelden to set up a tavern and haberdashery. Rosaline preferred the female-led southern Chantry and tried to attend services; however, due to her Tevinter heritage she was all but expelled from the churches and was forced to worship without them. She became well-known in Denerim and was slowly accepted, though many considered her an outsider. Rosaline eventually told her lover that she wanted the Chantry to accept her for who she was, not for what her family was, and travelled out to a nearby wyvern cave in order to achieve a 'Vessel' title. She was the first to actively seek it, and was granted it four years after she had driven the beasts off due to her renouncement of Tevinter and her familiarity with Denerim's native residents. She then campaigned for her predecessor's re-election, claiming that 'all were redeemed of their ancestors' crimes with the lover of the Maker'. She succeeded and quickly retired to live a quiet life with her lover. She died of a heart attack at the age fifty, most likely due to her love of buttery foods. Her lover followed her a week later, rumoured to have died of 'a broken heart'.

The sixth, the Dragon-Slayer's predecessor, had also come from Tevinter, the infant of a slave, and Dorian had found the rider to be correct. She had survived a boating accident that had left the crew dead and was found and raised by a marquis' widow, who named her Leanne. She preferred warrior training to traditional education and practiced in her own time, much to her mother's annoyance, while relying heavily on the elf servants for her day-to-day needs. The widow had left the region for a short business trip when a small Qunari group invaded. She had indeed killed them with handmade weapons, saving both herself and her servants, and was later honoured as a Vessel. She used the title as leverage in her mother's commercial dealings and soon went on to join the Fourth Blight, in which she died protecting mages from a darkspawn attack. She was stepped on by the archdemon, her body cremated and scattered over the riverbed where her mother had found her.

Then, there was the Dragon-Slayer. The seventh Vessel, and by far the most curious of them all. Rumoured to be from the Free Marches, the Dragon-Slayer had reportedly witnessed his village razed to the ground by a high dragon as a young child. He set about a mass revenge plot in which he climbed the Vimmark Mountains, where he had seen the creature return to, and enter into a winding cave system he soon became lost in. It took him three days to find the dragon's lair and subsequently the dragon herself. He was weak from lack of food and subsisting on only a few drops of water a day, found on cave moss, but he went on to succeed in murdering the dragon and destroying her nest, leaving the Free Marches with little else but a collection of her teeth and a few trophies from the lair. He then disappeared from the Marches and travelled with an unknown craftsman, who fashioned his famous dragon teeth blades with their jewelled hilts. His next reported sighting was near the Frostback Basin about a year after the high dragon's death, dubbed 'the Avvar incident', in which he had found and rescued a baby after an avalanche had buried her hometown. He travelled with her for three days before finding her father in a Chantry outpost nearby, where he caught the attention of the sisters. He was sent to Val Royeaux and to the seat of Divine Beatrix III, who listened to his stories and had them verified in the space of a few weeks. The Dragon-Slayer did not refer to himself by name and it was unclear if anyone asked for it; thus began the intrigue in the soon-to-be child-Vessel. By the time the Templars had returned to confirm the dragon's corpse was where he claimed it to be, the boy had generated a massive amount of interest from both the commoners and nobles and was named a Vessel before his twelfth birthday – the youngest person to have served as one. A year later, the Dragon-Slayer disappeared from Val Royeaux and was rarely seen in the cities afterwards, remaining a largely enigmatic figure who did not easily share details of his life. People reported from all over Thedas that he was often seen in small villages, helping to prevent catastrophes or protecting them from harm, but he had always moved on before onlookers could come and see.

"Am I interrupting?"

Dorian started at the sound of the Dragon-Slayer's voice. He dropped his book on the table and spun on his heel, clutching at his chest.

"I didn't hear you!" he half-chuckled, "I half-expected you to not turn up."

"Empress Celene made an offer that would be difficult to refuse. The Inquisitor mentioned that you wanted to see me?"

"I did. I've been doing some research and wanted your expert opinion. Here – sit with me. I'll fetch the wine."


	14. The Past

"The fourth Vessel was an elf," the Dragon-Slayer confirmed, in the soft firelight that burned from Dorian's brazier, "He was born in an alienage to a devout Andrastian family. His devotion made him somewhat of a pariah amongst his peers, as I recall."

"It seems rather odd that he was so faithful. The elves haven't exactly had a fair deal since the March."

"It does. Perhaps he had made his peace with history, or his family were afraid of the repercussions. It's not clear, and perhaps not even important. Athrahel was faithful – and it led to his death."

"Athrahel?"

"The fourth. Athrahel, the erased Vessel."

"An impressive title," said Dorian as he poured more wine. Through the window he could see little else but snow and ice, but the library was warm and comfortable, untouched by the cold of the mountains. "I wasn't surprised to see that Rosaline petitioned for his reinstatement. It must have been difficult, faced with all that prejudice."

"No more so than the prejudice you faced when you joined the Inquisition," the Dragon-Slayer replied. "Rosaline had a fire. She withstood the Chantry's discrimination and overcame it, no matter how difficult the task. Once she was a Vessel, she saw no reason for Athrahel to be left forgotten. He was one of us. History should acknowledge that."

Dorian raised his glass, his chin tilted upwards with a smile. "To Athrahel."

The Dragon-Slayer raised his own.

"Athrahel."

He finished his draught before than Dorian and took the time to admire him. He had impeccable fashion sense and clearly cared about his appearance; even his hair was clipped to perfection. He carried himself as a Tevinter – poise and elegance were key – but he had the air of a more cultured man, one who had seen and done things that his countrymen would not even dare imagine. His accent reminded him of home.

"But," said Dorian once he had set his wine down, returning his inquisitive eyes to the Dragon-Slayer, "we've spoken enough about them. Let's talk more about you. Are you settling in well?"

"Lady Montilyet made a great deal of effort in the tower, and she did well. It's not too…Inquisition. It will take some time to get used to, though – a place of my own."

"I'm sure it's different to what you're used to. We've a tavern, at least, so at least you can drink yourself into a stupor if you're finding the transition difficult."

"Perhaps you and I should head there once we're finished with this research," he suggested, "I need to meet the rest of the Inner Circle. I'm curious about Cole – the demon?"

"Spirit of compassion," Dorian corrected, "but he's much more…human, now." The Dragon-Slayer's eyebrows quirked. "It's hard to explain."

"The Inquisitor keeps strange company."

"He does."

"Dorian, tell me, did you truly walk through the Fade in the battle of Weisshaupt?"

The mage squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he took another long draw of his drink. Images of the battle burned into his mind – the corpses, the fighting, the blood. He had never spoken about it, not at length, but he felt comfortable in the Dragon-Slayer's presence. He seemed a man who had seen more than his fair share of gruesome sights.

"It is," he admitted, "It was…well, terrible's not quite the right word. It was beautiful, in its way, all those mountains in the air and buildings twisted in odd shapes. Even the demons were majestic, as much as demons can be. The entire time I felt as if I were outside of my body, but right next to it, feeling every emotion through a filter. Except fear. I was very, very afraid."

"Did you meet the Divine?"

"Damien believes it was a shred of her spirit, waiting for us to come through so she could help us one last time. I'm…not sure. It could have been. It could have also been just another spirit emulating what it saw of her."

The Dragon-Slayer nodded and peered into his wine. He was quiet for a moment, before he raised his head and locked eyes with his friend.

"I never met Divine Justinia," he admitted, much to Dorian's surprise, "I was meant to. She had sent letters, written me invitations to the Grand Cathedral. She said, 'Our Fates are bound to the Maker, and his servants should be open with each other.' I don't answer summons, thought, perhaps stupidly, she would serve on the Sunburst throne for years to come. There would be time, I told myself. I admired her tenacity, her attempts to stop the mage-templar war. I was travelling to the Conclave when she died. I wanted to help her."

Dorian smiled, "You said you were in Redcliffe."

"I did. I wasn't. The Divine's cause was noble and I felt it was time we met." He swirled his drink. "Too late, it appeared."

The Dragon-Slayer seemed melancholy, so Dorian did not respond. He waited for him to speak. There was no use in interrupting another person's regret, after all.

"She was an honourable woman. She had a past, certainly – but we all have a past."

Dorian rested his glass on his knee, "Yes. We all do."

The Dragon-Slayer leaned over to set his glass on the table, but had misjudged it. As he set it down, he accidentally tipped it over and sent the wine sprawling near the books.

" _ **Venhedis**_!" he exclaimed, jumping to snatch them up. " _ **Fasta vass! Kaffas!**_ "

Dorian was stunned. He did not even think to help rescue his notes – the Dragon-Slayer's Tevene had shocked him. His pronunciation was almost flawless, and his accent was almost authentic. It sounded as if it was his first language, even from those brief curses.

"I apologise," the man said as he set the books aside, "I've saved what I could. Perhaps the wine can be mopped up somehow? I'll help you rewrite them if necessary."

"That—that was Tevene."

The Dragon-Slayer froze. He had not realised he had slipped into it. It was a relic; a memory of the past, his past. He used it only when necessary, and even then it still caused him pain. How could he have slipped up? How could he have used it _then_ , when all the Inquisition was around him?

"Forgive me," he said as he turned and hurried away from him, "I must go."

Dorian called out for him to wait, but it was too late. The man had left the library and was soon out of the rotunda completely, the door closing shut behind him. Dorian's call echoed in the empty walls.

As he sat down, the mage's brain tried to figure out what had just happened. That Tevene had been so clear, so flawless that he could have sworn he would have heard it out of the mouth of his own countrymen. But this was not his countryman. This was a Free Marcher, a man of great legend, a Vessel of the Maker.

But it sounded so perfect.


	15. Forgive Me

The rider had escaped to his tower, and had found himself kneeling in front of the shrine. He had considered praying. It was almost a compulsion – that little act one performed to feel more in control of the world. But he resisted it, at least for a while. It only fuelled his constant hope that perhaps the more he did, the more he defied, the more he protected, the more he would hear.

Dorian would no doubt inform Leliana of his Tevene. He was not prepared for her full scrutiny, but he would have to adapt. That was the language of a defiant people, after all; and he had hidden it from her, as he had hidden so much else. But was not Elias of Tevinter? Were Rosaline and Leanne no less divine because of their heritage? He was a Free Marcher – but the Imperium flowed just as strongly in his veins.

With a sigh, the rider clasped his hands together and bowed his head. He recited the Chant of Light – "Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls/ From these emerald waters doth life begin anew/ Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you/ In my arms lies Eternity." – before he settled into a comfortable silence.

He had never prayed aloud before. It seemed such an intimate, private act that speech would spoil it. But he needed to hear himself; he could not withstand silence any longer.

"Mother," he murmured, "I pray you your forgiveness. For my weakness, for my fear. For the life I lead, so far from Wildervale, so far from the life you wanted for me – that Father set for me. Forgive me for having but a few memories of you, and for ignoring the heritage you passed on to me. To hide my Tevene, that I am a Tevinter through you, is as if I renounce you entirely.

"Forgive me for failing to save Goimar. Had he not followed me, perhaps he would have survived. Perhaps I would at least have had a body to cremate. I pray he has found you in the Beyond. I pray he is free. Forgive me, for failing my Father. Forgive me, for no longer using my name. Thedas does not want it. The world does not need it. Perhaps both of your sons died on that bridge, and I am but the man he left in his stead. Forgive me, your child, your terrible, terrible child, for all that I have done to destroy your memory, to spit on the legacy you left behind. Forgive me for the death that follows me. Forgive me for the world I have shaped with my actions."

Tears wet his cheeks. He could feel his voice crack as he spoke. His hands clasped harder, as if he wanted to squeeze the memories out of his skin.

"Forgive me for my failures," he cried, "Please, Mother – forgive me."

The rider's head lowered to the floor. He wept in front of Andraste's cold stone eyes, alone in his sorrow, as he sought pardon for crimes he was certain he had committed.

There was a knock at the door downstairs. He ignored it at first. Then it happened again. As the visitor knocked a third time, he sat up and wiped at the tears in his eyes, encouraging life to them as he returned his gaze to the statues before him. There was still silence. He had not been forgiven.

The fourth knock. He moved to answer it.

* * *

Dorian was on the other side of the door. The wind whipped at his face and the snow had piled on his head and shoulders, his cheeks pink with cold. He had a gift under his arm – a Tevinter fiction, he noticed, as the cover was in Tevene and read _'The Mage of Sun'_ – and smiled at him warmly. The Dragon-Slayer did not immediately invite him in.

"I thought you might want some company," he said.

"Oh?" he replied, "Does Sister Nightingale send company often?"

"That's not the sort of business she runs, unfortunately."

The rider peered at him for a moment. He was uncertain if he trusted him. But his manner was too casual for a man on a mission; his shoulders were too slack, and he did not try to see into the tower.

He opened the door wider and gestured for him to enter. Dorian hurried inside.

"I'm sure you're not used to these surroundings," the Dragon-Slayer said once he had shut the door. "I hope they're not too rustic for you."

"If you think this is uncomfortable, you've never slept in a tent in the middle of the Wastes." Dorian set the book down on his dining table. He looked at his companion with the confidence of a man who had seen the truth, though there was hesitation in his movements. "For you. I thought perhaps you would enjoy it – very few here appreciate Imperium literature."

"Oh," he picked it up. There was an odd illustration on it; a man painted with golden rays pouring out of his skin, in an almost-Chantry style. "Thank you."

As he admired the cover, he and Dorian stood in a pregnant silence. It had been a few hours since the rider had revealed he spoke Tevene, and both were uncertain what step to take next. Dorian's curiosity frenzied inside his mind; he needed to understand – to know who the Dragon-Slayer was. It was a need quite unlike any other.

"I suppose I should expect questions from Sister Nightingale soon," he eventually said. Dorian's eyebrow rose. "I assume you've told her, yes?"

"Leliana and I have differing opinions on how to handle information," he replied, "and we have very different views of the Imperium, naturally. I've not told her, no."

The Dragon-Slayer set the book down on the table. "She's your spymaster, is she not?"

"She is. But if she's to find out, she'll do so on her own – at least until I know more." Dorian sat down on one of the armchairs in front of the fire. The rider stood for a moment longer, calculating his options, before he sighed and joined him. He sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped together and his eyes trained on the dancing fire.

"What do you want to know?" he asked.

"I suppose I just want to…understand. Were you born in the Imperium?"

"No," he replied, "My mother was."

"A Soporati?"

"Altus."

Dorian's mind immediately fled to the old mnemonics of genealogies he had been forced to learn as a child. He tried to remember gossip his mother had shared with him, the snippets of information he had learnt from other Altus children. There must have been _some_ memory that pinpointed who his mother was.

"You're trying to figure out who," the Dragon-Slayer said, dispelling his thoughts, "There's no need. I'll tell you. Her name was Audia Herathinos."

That surname struck Dorian quite hard. He had once been promised to Livia Herathinos – through their parents, of course – and had dreaded the day the pair of them would pledge themselves to a life of spite and heartache. But he had never heard of Audia; and if she had indeed been a Herathinos, that would put the Dragon-Slayer as Livia's potential cousin, or some close relation at least. He pried for no more information, however. He felt the man was not yet done.

"She met my father by chance, she told me. Wandered too far on a holiday in Ostwick. He was there to compete in the Tourney – a simpler time, before even the Fifth Blight. She said she spent a wonderful week with him, and then went home. Her parents never knew, since she was betrothed to someone who believed she would propagate his magical lineage. It sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Dorian nodded, "It does. Your mother was a mage, then?"

"She was, and an excellent one. Well, not even mages can see troubled times ahead, I suppose. She had fallen pregnant. She had no idea until one of her aunts commented on her weight gain. She admitted to her parents what had happened, and what did they do? They banished her from their home. My grandparents were more concerned about their image than their daughter and her unborn.

"The slaves helped her. She had always been kind to them, so a few arranged discreet travel into the Marches and left her with supplies enough to start anew. But she was so terrified; how does one raise a baby without even a roof over their head? No coin to buy food or clothes? No life experience beyond Circles and luxury? She was certain both she and her child would die."

He paused. The flames in front of him seemed not to dance for that moment, but instead were twisting and writhing as though in agony, pleading for his memory to end. Dorian waited, then prompted him with a gentle:

"But she did find her way."

The Slayer shook the thoughts from his mind. "To an extent. She returned to Ostwick, where she was taken in by some Chantry sisters. There was some protest, of course. She was a Tevinter, and a mage. It was decided upon by the Mother that she would be allowed to give birth and then sent to a Circle – the baby would be raised by the Chantry to become a Seeker. She didn't speak of that time often. I assume she just accepted her new life, that she would never know her child, that even freedom would soon be a memory. But the Maker had other plans for her."

The rider stood and went to his bookcase. He pulled out one of the novels – a Chantry tale, Dorian noticed – and produced a large bottle of Imperium whisky from behind it. His companion's head tilted back, eyebrows raised and a light smile on his face. He saw it when he turned around.

"The Chantry doesn't see _everywhere_ ," he said as he poured it into two tumblers. He returned to his seat, handing one to Dorian as he took a long draw of his own. "Mother learnt the Chant and did what she needed to so that the sisters would leave her be, for the most part. Then, one day, she told them she needed to fetch some herbs for her pain – she had told them she was worried for the baby, as she was soon to give birth and it hadn't been as active lately. They allowed it, since she was a 'model' patient. She went to the market, where – again by chance – she ran into my father. He had not won the Tourney, though he was placed high enough to be hired as someone's body guard. I forget who."

"He sounds able to hold himself," Dorian said as he sipped. The Dragon-Slayer nodded, his eyes dreamy and distant.

"He was."

There was another pause.

"They ran together. Out of Ostwick, out from under the Chantry – they just ran, with no idea where they would end up. In a few days Mother's due date neared, so Father took her to his home county, Wildervale. I was born two days later. Her only son."

He drank that burning lie.

"Father set up a carpentry business, and there we all lived in peaceful harmony until their deaths."

"No backlash against her being a mage?"

"She never mentioned it. She was excellent at controlling it and never used magic again, as far as I'm aware. The Chantry sent people searching a few times, but Father had drilled into my skull that I was to turn them away – we knew no Audia, my mother's name was Clementine." He watched the fire, once more dancing. "Then the dragon came, and the Chantry imprisoned me instead."

There was silence. Dorian waited in it for a moment before he asked:

"The Chantry have no idea where you came from, then?"

He shook his head softly. "No. I was told never to tell them anything, and so I never did. Not even when my life depended on it. I told them as much as I thought was needed, about the dragon, where to find it, and not much else. Not even my own name."

"Did you never need to use it?" he asked. The rider rested his elbow on his knee and drank.

"It was never important, in the end." He replied. He did not offer to share it with his companion, and Dorian felt he would not tell him if he asked. There would be time enough for that in the future, he hoped.

The Dragon-Slayer cupped his glass in both hands and turned his gaze to Dorian. "Now that you understand, I suppose the Nightingale will be informed. Perhaps she will find out more than Bellatrix could." Dorian twirled his glass against the firelight, resting his legs across the armchair with a faint smile.

"I don't see why she needs to know," he said. His friend furrowed his brow. "I have secrets too, Dragon-Slayer. Perhaps you and I can share them sometime, over brandy. This isn't quite what I'd call 'fine drinking'."

The rider laughed. "Perhaps we can."

As the pair of them settled into a quiet conversation, the Dragon-Slayer felt, at least for a while, that he had found a kindred spirit.


	16. Close to the Heart

The feast had been postponed, much to the rider's relief. He and Dorian were discussing the intricacies of Imperium life when a runner knocked and informed them that the snowstorm had delayed the celebration, as much of the staff were needed to fight the damage it caused. The Dragon-Slayer confirmed that the food was to be divided amongst the workers and let the man on his way, returning to his seat near the fire with a smile.

"The storm caught us by surprise," Dorian said, "It wasn't meant to hit for another three days."

"Perhaps it's an omen," the Dragon-Slayer chuckled as he poured more of his drink. Dorian watched as the shadows deepened and darkened around his face, chasing his smile and quiet, sombre eyes.

"I've had my fill of omens for this lifetime," he replied.

"I'll drink to that," he rose his glass in the air, and then drank. The amber firelight made his whisky look as though it were aflame. Dorian admired the sharp edge of his jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple; he had inherited his looks from his mother, it seemed, for his facial structure was similar to other Herathinos men he had met. He had always found them attractive.

" _ **I would have thought your mother wouldn't teach you Tevene,**_ _"_ he said in his native language. It had been a long time since he had spoken it; its sound immediately conjured images of home. " _ **Did it not raise questions?**_ "

The Dragon-Slayer paused for a moment, considering whether or not to answer in Tevene. " _ **She taught me against my father's wishes, because she wanted to carry a little piece of home in me. I was forbidden to speak it in public, of course.**_ "

" _ **It's odd to hear it spoken so eloquently outside of the Imperium.**_ _"_

" _ **I suppose it would count as my mother tongue,**_ _"_ he laughed, _"_ _ **I learnt Tevene before I learnt the common language, after all. It was more…natural to my ear.**_ _"_ He took another long draw of his whisky. " _ **Perhaps if Mother had made different choices, I would be a Tevinter mage with land and a sizable inheritance.**_ _"_

" _ **You would never have been named a Vessel,**_ _"_ Dorian remarked. He noticed the Dragon-Slayer's eyes darken, but it was fleeting.

" _ **The Maker works in mysterious ways. Even if not a Vessel, I imagine my life would have been mapped out for me in Tevinter as well.**_ _"_

" _ **Ah, yes. Marry the girl, have lots of little Dragon-Slayers, dutifully wait for your position in the magisterium.**_ _"_

The Dragon-Slayer grimaced in repulsion, _"_ _ **Unfortunately my progeny will never know this world.**_ _"_

" _ **No? But you would have such handsome sons,**_ _"_ he said. His companion's eyebrow rose, but he said nothing as he sipped his whisky and shook his head. _"_ _ **I don't suppose many Vessels had children after their initiation. Can't serve the faith and have a life outside of it, after all.**_ _"_

" _ **Evelyn had a child,**_ _"_ the rider noted. Dorian's interest piqued – he had read no mention of a child, nor that any of the Vessels had procreated once their position had been confirmed. _"_ _ **A son. He was the one who started the noble line. Larnoix de Mane.**_ _"_

" _ **My research never mentioned him. I assumed her siblings had started the line.**_ _"_

" _ **Most of them were elevated to nobles with Larnoix's sponsorship, but he was the first. He was the one who had the land handed down to him after Evelyn's death. Athrahel had two children as well, but both were 'illegitimate' and weren't recognised as his. Of course he died young, and where his children went is lost to history.**_ _"_

" _ **How do you know all of this?**_ _"_ he asked. Dorian had wondered a few times how the Dragon-Slayer's knowledge of the other Vessels was so detailed; not even the most anal of Chantry archivists could speak much about their lives, especially not Athrahel's.

The rider paused, holding his drink up to his face so he could stare into it. He twirled it in his fingers for a moment, quiet and contemplative, before he drained the last drops and stood up. Dorian watched as he walked towards the stairs.

" _ **Something I said?**_ _"_ he half-joked, for he was uncertain if he had offended him. He turned his head towards the mage, clutching the banister with one foot on the stairs. His expression had turned a touch serious.

" _ **I feel I can trust you,**_ _"_ he said, _"_ _ **and I believe you when you say you won't tell Sister Nightingale about my heritage. With that said, what I'm about to show you has never been shown to anyone other than the Divine and the Vessels. It's one of the only traditions we have, and I don't want anyone else to know of its existence. Before I show you this – do you think you could keep this from Leliana, if I asked you to?**_ _"_

Dorian sipped his drink with a wane smile, _"_ _ **I see no reason for her to know.**_ _"_

The Dragon-Slayer peered at him for a moment. It felt as if he was attempting to stare into his very soul. Then, with a slight nod, he hurried up the stairs and out of Dorian's sight. He could hear the floorboards creaking overhead, the sound of a chest opening and closing, and then more footsteps as his companion returned. He was holding a black book with several loose pages in his hands. There was a Chantry symbol burned into the cover.

He held it as though it were precious gold. As he approached, he seemed almost reluctant to offer it. His head was low, and he stared at the book with a sort of reverence that Dorian found out of character for him.

" _ **This…**_ _"_ he said, _"_ _ **These are the writings of every single Vessel before me.**_ _"_ He extended it to the mage, who took it gingerly from him. _"_ _ **Guion started the tradition. He wrote a lot about his struggles – being away from his family, fighting darkspawn. Once he died it was collected by Divine Justinia II and kept in a secret archive. Elias gained access to the archive when he was eliminating the elves, and continued writing. His are mostly ravings against elves, but there are some moments of clarity that…well, after he died the Chantry took most of his possessions, including the book, and again kept it under lock and key until Evelyn was named the Vessel. It's been handed down like that ever since. After Leanne died, Divine Hortensia II reclaimed the book and wrote specific instructions for Divine Rosamund to keep it safe and hidden until another Vessel was named. That Vessel ended up being me. Bellatrix gave this to me on the day it was announced. She told me to look to it for guidance in times of hardship, or if I ever felt my faith waver.**_ 'These are the words of those before you. Heed them carefully, for they are your lights in the darkness, the only ones who understand the journey you are about to undertake.' _**As a child it was…terrifying. To have so much expectation on my shoulders, and only a single book to guide me. But now…I feel as though I know them as closely as I do my own heartbeat.**_ _"_

Dorian touched the cover with his fingertips. The action appeared to make his friend wince, so he was careful when he opened it up and was met with meticulously preserved paper and faded writing.

" _ **Have you started to write in it?**_ _"_ he asked as he peered at Elias' ravings. The Dragon-Slayer crossed his arms and paced the room while he read, his eyes trained on his shoes.

" _ **Yes,**_ _"_ he replied, _"_ _ **I started writing the moment I left Val Royeaux as a child. I remember I felt such a kinship with Athrahel, as though I was an imposter.**_ _"_

Dorian gently turned the pages until he came across Athrahel's first entry. His handwriting was atrocious, and he misspelt most of the words he wrote; in the first three sentences, he mentioned that the sisters had taught him how to read and write specifically for that purpose. In the few entries he had made before his death, he spoke often of people's prejudice towards him, how his children were looked down upon both by elves and humans. He lamented his life, but wrote how he loved his family and he hoped, with time, that the humans could come to accept him as part of the Chantry. His entries stopped abruptly, and the next was of Rosaline – she had written under Athrahel's last sentence, 'Rest well, brother; we will not forget you.'

" _ **These are very intimate. Are you sure you want me reading this?**_ _"_ he asked. The Dragon-Slayer leant against his armchair, his head still bent and arms still crossed, and nodded.

" _ **It's been hidden for centuries,**_ _"_ he said, _"_ _ **The words of my predecessors, and one day my own. I felt it was time someone knew, even if just one other person.**_ _"_

Dorian stood and approached him, setting the book carefully on the table as he did. When he reached the Dragon-Slayer, he put a hand on his shoulder and smiled warmly at him.

" _ **Thank you.**_ _"_

* * *

In the courtyard, the snowstorm had buried most of the tents and forced people to evacuate all but the main buttresses. Dennet had moved the horses to the empty prison cells, including Onyx, and so from the outside it seemed as if Skyhold had been abandoned overnight.

It was in the eerie white that an Inquisition soldier stumbled in through the gates. He was limping, holding a wound on his side that wept bright red blood, and the minute he had crossed through into the grounds he fell to his knees and looked up at the sky.

"It's coming for us!" he screamed, before he collapsed into the snow. An archer from the buttress heard his cry and called out to her companions, leaning over the walls to find a slowly-growing pool of blood building around the unconscious man.

"Send for the Inquisitor!" the archer called, "And a healer! Quickly, we need to get him inside!"


	17. Dangerous Pastimes

Imperium alcohol was more potent than southern, he was sure of it. The Dragon-Slayer's vision blurred at the edges and he found himself feeling light, smiling as he listened to tales of Dorian's boyhood in Tevinter – the 'problem child' of a proud Altus family.

Dorian did not return to the library that night; he did not want to brave the storm, and, perhaps more importantly, he found himself reluctant to leave the Dragon-Slayer's side. He told himself it was the conversation, the memories that well-spoken Tevene summoned up, but the excuse fell flat. He enjoyed the rider's company.

" _ **Do you know, Dorian,**_ _"_ he chuckled as he picked up his glass, using a free finger to point at him, _"_ _ **my mother warned me about men like you.**_ _"_

" _ **Tevinters or mages?**_ _"_ he asked.

" _ **Beautiful.**_ _"_ He drank and leaned forward to refill his glass. _"_ _ **Intelligent.**_ _"_

Dorian could not hide his smile. _"_ _ **My mother didn't warn me about men like you. Perhaps she should have.**_ _"_

" _ **Would it have kept you away?**_ _"_

" _ **Of course not.**_ _"_

The Dragon-Slayer leaned over to him. He had set his glass down on the floor, and his eyes were narrowed, smiling through the haze of alcohol that had overcome him. Dorian met him halfway. The firelight cast warm shadows on their faces and their silhouettes were haloed with the amber glow. The rider reached forward to caress Dorian's jawline with the tip of his fingers. His skin was softer than he expected.

" _ **This is a dangerous game we play,**_ _"_ he mused, half to himself.

" _ **I like danger.**_ _"_

The rider laughed, a low, gravelly laugh, and closed the distance between them. It was the first time had had kissed someone in – oh, far too long, he thought. There were no fireworks exploding in his head; it was more of a slow burn that started in his stomach and soon engulfed him as he appreciated Dorian's taste, his rhythm, his scent. It cut through the haze with an intensity he felt in his very core. If he remembered nothing else, he would remember this.

There was a knock at the door. At first, he barely heard it. Then it sounded again, followed by the urgent tone of someone in a rush. The Dragon-Slayer and his companion parted, their heads turning towards the door with expressions of confusion and faint annoyance. Dorian unconsciously clutched the rider's hand.

"Master Dragon-Slayer," a woman said, though her voice was muffled, "please, I've an urgent message for you – from the Inquisitor."

He sighed and shrugged at the mage before he stood up. Dorian watched him as he reclined in his seat, his legs stretched out towards the fire and a contented smile on his face. When he opened the door the Dragon-Slayer was immediately buffeted by the wind. It felt like ice against his skin.

The woman was smaller than he expected. She held up a small lantern to guide her through the darkness and her cloak flapped wildly as she squinted to look up at him. She wore no insignia. _Leliana's people,_ he mused.

"What's the message?" he asked. She peered into the tower behind him, and though he tried to block it with his shoulder the agent caught sight of Dorian. Her face changed, but to what he did not know.

 _That's not a good sign._

"Oh, Master Pavus, you're here too," she noted, "I couldn't find you in the library. It's best you hear this as well. The Inquisitor wants all of the Inner Circle to report to the hall, immediately."

The mage sighed and joined his friend at the door. The space between the frames was small, so he used the opportunity to lean against his side and press a hand against his back. His expression showed no reaction, but Dorian felt him lean into the touch.

"Can we know why?" he asked.

"Sister Nightingale didn't tell me," she replied, and the Dragon-Slayer believed her. "I've been told it's urgent, and that's it. I must go and tell the others."

The pair nodded, and off the agent vanished into the snow. He watched her lantern move through the air as her own silhouette faded out of sight, and then the pinprick of light disappeared as she opened and hurried through a door.

He shut the door as soon as she was gone. The Dragon-Slayer pulled a cloak up from the back of a chair and draped it over himself, slipping his jewelled blades into their holsters with a practiced flourish. Dorian crossed his arms and leant against the wall, chuckling softly.

"That's one thing that Damien's good at," he said, "He knows how to ruin the mood."

"Perhaps we'll have a chance to do this again soon," the rider said as he hurried to put away his whisky and book, "Then again, no doubt the Nightingale will hear about this. That was her agent, was it not?"

"Janet. _**A decent informant. But she's not too observant, clearly – she didn't even notice the whisky.**_ _"_

" _ **She was too focused on the fact you were here. I'm more thankful she didn't see the book. That's not something I'm willing to lose.**_ _"_

"Relax," Dorian put a hand on his shoulder, "Even if she did see it, she'll not have seen the cover. _**It's safe.**_ "

The rider clutched his hand and nodded. He did not fear too much – the agent had not noticed it, and it was true that the Chantry symbol was difficult to see in low light – but Dorian's presence in the tower so late at night would lead to questions. Leliana would come to speak to him, at least, and try to play on his loyalty in order to find out what information he had on the Dragon-Slayer. He had put his faith in Dorian. He hoped, in his inebriated state, that he had not misplaced that faith.

"Let's see what this is about," he said as he tied the hood of his cloak into place. The mage nodded and opened the door; and into the storm, he and the Dragon-Slayer vanished.


	18. Attacked

The soldier had been torn to pieces. His uniform was all but shredded; the chainmail was scoured with claw marks too sharp to have been a common predator, and one half of his face was a mess of open wounds. He had seen these injuries before. He had seen them too many times.

"He was found in the courtyard?"

Cullen's voice sounded far-off. He did not hear the Inquisitor's reply. The surgery floor was slick with blood; on a counter beside the table was a salve of elfroot, propped up beside glistening red medical equipment and mounds of wet bandages. The surgeon had done all she could. The man could not have survived his wounds, and, though he had suffered much, he was at peace. The Dragon-Slayer ignored the arriving members to examine the injuries. His brow furrowed the more he saw.

Janet returned with Cole and whispered into Leliana's ear in the corner of the room. The spymaster's face remained fixed to a cautious indifference – too much practice to slip – and she nodded, dismissing her agent with a brief, "Thank you." Vivienne saw her gaze train itself on the Dragon-Slayer, too focused on the corpse to notice, and every so often flick to Dorian, who waited near the side of the room for information. There was a respectable distance between them, but the former imperial enchanter had noticed her fellow mage's absence from the library that night. She had also noticed that the Dragon-Slayer's movements were a touch less graceful than before, a fact that would have slipped past the untrained eye. She decided to question him later; she needed to prioritise the dead man and his peculiar injuries, not her own desire for scandal.

"The surgeon is quite distraught," Josephine noted, "She fought hard, but he died during the effort. I've offered her some extra pay and a few weeks to recover."

"Irma is one of our most skilled surgeons," Leliana pointed out, "If she couldn't have saved him, it's a wonder he even made it to Skyhold in the first place. His patrol was in Ferelden."

"Yes, and none of the seven scouts he left with have returned either."

"What could have caused these injuries?"

"Drakes."

The rider's voice cut through their conversation and caught all of their attentions. The advisors looked at him, but his eyes were still rooted on the soldier, inspecting his wounds with a stern expression on his face.

"Drakes, Your Grace?" replied Josephine.

He looked up and nodded at her. With one finger he traced the line of a long, precise cut running from the soldier's hip to the top of his chest. The white of his bones was visible, stark against the well of blood.

"Look at this," he said, "It's thin – so thin it could be a clean cut, if done by someone with a steadier hand. These claws were sharp. And here – the skin around it has been burnt. There's singeing on his right arm and left leg where he tried to defend himself; and his feet are bloody, most likely because he ran over rough terrain."

"Demons breathe fire. Ugly shits, they are."

The Dragon-Slayer did not answer Sera. In truth, he had not heard her. He was inspecting the burns on the corpse, determining if the drake was young or not – the young tended to be more aggressive, he recalled, while older males relied more on their cunning and often devised clever traps. It seemed that this man had a mixture of both methods used on him. There were fracture points on his knees and shins; evident of something strong and solid hitting them repeatedly.

"Dragon-Slayer."

The Inquisitor's voice pulled him out of his thoughts again. Damien seemed tired; it was never easy to lose another soldier. "Have you seen this before?"

"I have." He confirmed. "But this is strange. Usually, these attacks are a result of a lone drake who's wandered too far from the queen's lair – and if not, then a collection of them searching to join a new harem elsewhere. This seems too…mixed. There's evidence here of drakes at early and late stages of life. I haven't seen it so diverse before."

"How much experience do you have with drakes?" he asked.

"I've killed thirty-two dragons," he replied, "and at least twenty of those had sizable harems."

" _Thirty-two_?" Varric exclaimed. "Jesus, kid, what did you do to deserve that?"

The rider smiled and turned his palms up, "I was named the Vessel."

"Remind me never to take your job."

"I'd think someone called the damn _Dragon-Slayer_ would've killed a lot of 'em, but shit, that's more than a few notches in your belt. I'm almost jealous." The Iron-Bull looked at him with his non-patched eye and swept the length of his body with it. Dorian felt a flash of jealousy, but the rider either did not notice or ignored it.

"It's experience," he said, "and right now, that experience makes me the most knowledgeable person standing in this room. This was a drake attack. Not done in a manner I'm familiar with, but a drake attack nonetheless."

"We would be remiss to ignore your expertise on the matter, Your Grace. But that doesn't explain how the soldier returned from Ferelden in such a poor state, especially seeing as he died despite our surgeon's best efforts."

"Can we confirm the patrol made it to Ferelden?" Cullen asked.

"I can check in with Scout Harding. If anyone knows, she does." Leliana replied.

"Have it confirmed," Damien said, "until then, I want all of our Ferelden patrols to stop their routes and return to the nearest cities."

"I'll send the messages now." Leliana exited the room with no more than a determined nod to the Inquisitor.

"For the rest of us," he turned to the Inner Circle, "Be prepared. If this turns out to be a threat, I'll need all of you to be ready for a fight. Until we have some more information, consider the area around Skyhold dangerous."

"I believe we all consider the mountains dangerous, Inquisitor," said Vivienne. Damien nodded, but did not respond to her otherwise.

"Dragon-Slayer," he said, "I'll need you to do some research. We have a fine creature research team here in Skyhold – consider them at your disposal."

"If this _is_ a drake attack, some of the best studies available will be from Imperium universities," Dorian pointed out.

"He's right," the Dragon-Slayer said, "It's best if I have someone well-versed in Tevinter academia to help me. Dorian is one of your best, no?"

"He did find connections between Corypheus and the House Amladaris," Josephine mentioned, "and he's not working on anything pertinent to our operations currently, to my knowledge."

"Dorian can help you where our own researchers can't," Damien agreed, "If you need him to translate Tevene and decipher relevant studies, then consider him your assistant."

"I am _nobody's_ assistant. I'll be your guide through the colourful world of footnotes and institutional brown-nosing."

"I look forward to working with you," the rider said. Vivienne could _almost_ be convinced of their display – as it was, no one else aside from the Iron Bull seemed to have noticed it.

"Excellent." The Inquisitor put his hand on the operating table. His eyes were soft despite the state of the corpse in front of him. "Josephine, can you make arrangements for the cremation? His remains should be returned to his family."

"Consider it done, Your Worship."

"Inquisitor," the Dragon-Slayer cut in, "A word?"

Damien nodded and dismissed the Circle.

* * *

Vivienne approached Dorian once the pair were a reasonable distance from the surgery room.

"My, my, Dorian," she chuckled, "Passing time with the Dragon-Slayer, were we?"

The mage was not surprised she had figured it out, but he was prepared to cover himself. "We were sharing a drink and discussing his adventures. He's quite fascinating."

"Just the one drink? Only, you both reek of whisky – Imperium, I notice. If not for the Iron Bull's constant stench of beer, the others would have noticed as well."

"I shared some of my reserves with him. Welcoming him to the Inquisition, considering the circumstances."

Vivienne's face fell into a slight frown. "The nature of your friendship with our dear Dragon-Slayer is of no concern to me, Dorian, but you should know that Leliana would not be as forgiving as I if she were to find something…else, going on."

"I assure you, my interest in the Dragon-Slayer is purely platonic," he laughed. It was convincing, to the point where Vivienne even questioned herself. Perhaps she had seen it in a light that did not exist?

"Probably for the best," she said, "The Dragon-Slayer is, after all, the Vessel of the Maker. That would force an end to any passing fancy, I'm sure."

She left, and Dorian stood for a moment by himself. Her words had struck him, but he was not certain why. The mage put his hands on his hips and watched her leave down the hall, until he heard the surgery door open and turned to see Damien and the rider exit. Both were engaged in a quiet conversation.

"This man has all the knowledge we need," the rider murmured, "He's helped the Inquisition before, but he and I have had disagreements in the past. He won't be willing to help me personally – he may make an exception for you, Inquisitor."

"Alright," he said, "tomorrow we'll start on the research. Until then, get some rest."

"Of course, Lord Inquisitor. Goodnight."

The Dragon-Slayer turned his heel and walked towards Dorian. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts; but when he caught sight of the mage, he smiled and gestured at the door.

"I've been given the fresco room to work in," he said as the pair departed for bed, "The Inquisitor assures me it's centralised enough to streamline our work."

"You'll be within walking distance of all the research team."

"Excellent." He opened and held the door for Dorian to walk through. "It's time we rest. I shall see you tomorrow to investigate some theories."

"I look forward to it."


	19. A Feud

"I will not be beholden to that man!"

Frederic had been called to the fortress, and at first, he was excited for the new opportunity. His research at the university had idled somewhat; assistants had been difficult to find after the death of his team in the Approach, and he found himself eager to deal with seasoned professionals, people who had studied and handled fierce creatures and did not flinch at the idea of a dragon.

The Dragon-Slayer was not who he had in mind.

"This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed as he stood in the war room, the Dragon-Slayer leaning against the windows with his arms folded and the Inquisitor with his team near the table. "He doesn't appreciate the amount of research that can be gleaned from prolonged study – the things that can be discovered if only one has the will to do it!"

"He requested you specifically," Josephine pointed out. Frederic scoffed.

"I will not be his underling, not after what he did to me."

"What did he do?" asked Cullen. The professor pointed an accusatory finger at the Dragon-Slayer, who rolled his eyes in boredom.

"He sabotaged nearly five years of study!" he said. "He interrupted a delicate operation that would have helped us understand High Dragons' breeding patterns!"

"I killed a High Dragon and destroyed its nest," the rider explained, " _after_ it had razed four villages to the ground."

"It was clutching!"

"It was dangerous."

Frederic threw a hand up in exasperation, "The Dragon-Slayer knows nothing of tact. He's a common thug." There was a brief pause in which neither the Inquisitor nor his advisors spoke. It was difficult to navigate the situation between them. Instead the rider sighed and stood up, approaching the mask-adorned draconologist with a hard frown and a shake of the head.

"You and I have had our disagreements, Frederic, but I wouldn't have asked the Inquisitor to contact you if I didn't believe you were the best person for the job," he said. "I know only one man so stubborn and reckless to want to study a dragon rather than kill it. If my theory proves correct, _you_ are the exact person we need on this team. Perhaps you won't work with me, but at least work with Helisma and put our squabbles aside – for the good of Thedas."

"And what theory is that, exactly?"

"A terrible one."

The draconologist paused. The tone of the rider's voice was serious, and he had to admit that the pair would not contact each other unless it was of the utmost importance. Their argument had spanned the better part of a decade; neither of them would drop it so easily for a simple dragon issue.

"Fine," Frederic said after a long while. "I will help. But I'll not be the Dragon-Slayer's assistant – I'll liaise with the creature research team and offer them what I can."

"Neither of you will need to deal with each other unless it's a matter of urgency," Damien promised. Frederic's tirade had left him with a headache, and he was willing to grant him anything he wanted if it meant he did not repeat it. The rider nodded and went to the window again, staring out at the snow-shrouded mountains as Frederic made arrangements for his supplies.

Once he had left – not without extensive instructions for his research and equipment to be delivered to Skyhold – the advisors soon followed, leaving Damien and the Dragon-Slayer alone. The war room seemed darker in the light of a storm. The windows were almost white and cold to the touch, and no sunlight crept across the floor, veiling the Inquisition tapestries in darkness.

"I've never seen him so irate," the Inquisitor ventured. His companion chuckled, but it was short and forceful.

"He's a thorn in my side," he replied, "but he's intelligent, and he understands dragons more than most. He also has no common sense. He'll become a liability if you don't keep your eye on him."

"You must have a good reason to want him here. Tell me more about this theory."

The rider closed his eyes and sighed, "Dorian and I are working on securing a copy of the Calenhad tale, as the Qunari interpret it. Until I have that, there's no use in stirring up rumour."

"These are my people, Dragon-Slayer. I need to know."

"With all due respect, Inquisitor, this is my area of expertise. I need you to trust me. If and when I find out more, then I will tell you. Until then, it's simply hearsay."

Damien stared at him for a moment, as though he were planning to argue. In truth, the reason that the Dagon-Slayer did not want to tell him his theory was because even _he_ could not fully grasp the implications of it. He did not want to cause worry, and he especially did not want the information to escape the castle's walls – the consequences would be dire. After a while, however, the Inquisitor relented.

"Does Dorian know?" he asked.

"No. I've not told anyone, and until I have more information I won't. All he knows is that we need this document."

"Alright." Damien's eyes narrowed. "I trust you."

"I am bound to your service, Inquisitor. For some, that makes me the only person you can trust."

* * *

There was no end to the blizzard, so at dawn he trained in it.

He wanted to be prepared. The idea of another dragon to face had sent adrenaline coursing through his veins, and as he practiced his flips and twirls in the storm, leaping from target to target with an expert finesse, he envisioned that scaled skin falling at his feet, the death throes of a cunning demon.

"Those who oppose thee/ Shall know the wrath of heaven," he shouted above the wind as he flipped to his feet, "Field and forest shall burn/ The seas shall rise up and devour them," The rider poised to perform a Deathblow, "The wind shall tear their nations/ From the face of earth," he raced towards his dummy, "Lightning shall rain down from the sky/ They shall cry out to their false gods!" His blades found their target. With one clean swipe, the dummy's head fell helplessly into the snow. The Dragon-Slayer lowered his weapons, his chest heaving.

"And find silence."


	20. In a Name

Dorian loved the colour of the Dragon-Slayer's eyes. Perhaps he should have focused more on his research, but he found himself admiring him as the rider leafed through the pages of an Imperium peer journal. Concentration was written all over his face, as if his life depended on those little footnotes, the names of the Old Gods, the Pentaghasts. Their Calenhad interpretation was still to arrive, courtesy of the Iron Bull, but he drowned himself in what little they and the creature research team could pull up about dragons in the mountains.

"The Avvar will know more," he murmured, half to himself, "I'll have to see if I can make contact with a Thane."

"Or," Dorian ventured, "you could ask Damien if he'd use some of his connections. He does know a few Avvar holds."

The Dragon-Slayer looked up and smiled at him, though it was thin and weary. He had been pouring over notebooks for days; Dorian had had to force him to rest, and often he had returned to the rotunda before first light. In the light of the braziers the dark crescent moons under his eyes were like shadows, deep and ominous, shadowing his fight against sleep.

"Perhaps we can do that in the morning. It's quite late."

"I've still some more to read," the rider replied as he returned to his notes, "Go and sleep, Dorian. There's no reason for you to be up as well."

He closed the journal he had rested on his lap and leaned forward to his friend, "This won't disappear overnight."

"No," he chuckled, "That's why it must be done."

"Hm."

Dorian sat back in his chair. He tented his fingers, crossing one leg over the other with a charming if sly smile. "Perhaps you'd prefer a different bed. Mine is excellent. Goose-down, Tevinter silks. I had it imported, on the Inquisitor's coin of course. Certainly better than the one you have in the tower, if you've a mind to see."

The Dragon-Slayer chuckled, "You're trying to tempt me."

"Is it working?"

He rubbed his eyes, trying to urge the sleep from them. "This is too important to wait."

"Perhaps I'd understand if you told me what exactly we're looking for."

The rider paused and looked at his friend. He had told the Inquisitor he would not reveal his theory to anyone, but with Dorian he felt…safe. If there were one person in the hold he would tell, it would be him. After all, he had sat up with him night after night, researching what little information the archives held. He dropped the quill in his hand and sat back, clasping his hands together, his face unreadable.

"Tell me, Dorian – what do you know of Great Dragons?"

"Ancient High Dragons that pre-date the rise of modern society."

"Correct," he said, "But some are thought to pre-date the Neromenians themselves. These are creatures so intelligent and powerful that a single one could wipe out half on Thedas. I've never encountered one. It's believed by most that they're either extinct, or no dragon has lived long enough to reach that stage."

"But…"

"But this soldier…it worries me. High Dragons have large harems, yes, and it's not unheard of for those harems to house drakes at different stages of life, but these wounds were so _varied_ – I've never seen it so apparent. Perhaps it's just a High Dragon nearing its clutching, but I won't deny that there's _something_ there. Something that feels strange to me."

"Do you believe it's a Great Dragon? If so, that's a monumental discovery. The implications behind it—"

"It would be terrible for all of Thedas," the rider interrupted, "and it must die. The problem is that there's so little research available in terms of academics; most of what can be learnt is based on legend, and then we have to contend with embellishment, flourish, outright lies muddying the information pool. It's a difficult position we find ourselves in."

"Is that the reason you've been reading up on the Old Gods?" Dorian asked. He had noticed some 'forbidden' literature at his desk once, though he had tried to hide it under more accepted resources.

"I thought perhaps I could compare the Old Gods to the legends and see if it would lead me to more," he explained, "but so far it hasn't helped."

"The Qunari tale, then?"

"In the Qun, it's taught that Calenhad gained enormous power through drinking the blood of a Great Dragon. According to them, this is how he was able to secure so many victories. I want to read the story and see – however small the chance – if I can pinpoint the exact location this dragon was found. Perhaps there will still be remnants of it, if it has any truth at all."

Dorian tilted his head, his lips pursed and a thoughtful expression on his face, "It's not much to go on."

"No, and even the rumour of a Great Dragon would cause mass panic. This must be kept a secret, Dorian, at least until we know more."

"If it's important to you, I won't mention it," the mage said, "but you should tell Damien. He's seen more than his fair share of impossible things. This would just add to the list."

"Once I can confirm it, he'll be the first to know. Until then it would be an unnecessary burden."

"Another that you shoulder alone."

The Dragon-Slayer rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. Dorian had read some of his entries in the Vessels' journal; he often spoke of the burden placed upon him at so young an age, to tout the Maker in every word he said, every decision he made. It was an intimate view of the man, and Dorian appreciated the trust that he had put in him – even if he was concerned.

"Well, it's late and I'm exhausted," Dorian stood, "The offer still stands, if you'd like."

He smiled, "Not tonight. Another time."

He moved to leave, but as he passed the rider reached out and gently clutched his forearm.

"I mean it, Dorian. Not tonight, but soon."

His eyes were sincere and full of promise. The mage felt his heart soften at the sight of them. He leaned in, softly pecking his lips as his hands slid along his shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze.

"I'll hold you to that," he said, before he stood and left towards the stairs. The Dragon-Slayer watched him until he had disappeared out of sight. He wanted so much to abandon his notes and follow, but there was too much to do – too much at stake if even a fraction of his theory was true.

So he returned to his work.

* * *

The hour was late. It was soon to be dawn, and the Dragon-Slayer had not yet retired to bed. He had found himself reading reports of odd seismic activity in the mountainside, and when he had stolen a map from Helisma's table he could start to section off the exact areas that were affected. He used several red pins tied off with twine – the parts of the Frostbacks that he thought were most likely to see more of the quakes, and in the middle he drew a large question mark, hoping that perhaps it meant something more.

"Are you still awake?"

The voice startled him. The rider went to stand, half-unsheathing a blade, before he realised Cole was standing sombrely near the door, as quiet as a mouse.

"Cole," he breathed as he sat back down, "I didn't hear you come in."

"No one ever does." He replied. "I heard you. You're very loud."

"I wasn't doing anything."

"Great wings in the dark, a river flowing too fast, a man with a boy's face, larger than he is, fighting against a current of prayers and duty…"

"Dorian warned me you might do that," the Dragon-Slayer rubbed rhythmic circles into his temples.

"He likes you. Very much. But he doesn't know all of you. Not yet."

He sighed, "Enough, Cole."

"It can be hard, to let people remember you. I can help. Wishing for something that can never be, stealing kisses under the raven's eye – what's in a name, what is my name?"

The spirit paused and looked at him, his arms crossed as he lowered his head. The brim of his hat covered his eyes.

"I know your name, Fabriel," he said, "Does it help?"

The rider was stunned. He had not heard his name in years; and even then he could only remember his mother calling for him in the madness, screaming at him to run. He felt his fists tighten, and suddenly he was on his feet, stealing towards Cole with a fire in his eyes.

"How do you know that name?!" he demanded. The spirit did not flinch from him, though he seemed surprised.

"I heard you," he said.

"I haven't spoken that name in two decades," he replied. "Where did you find it?! Tell me."

"I _heard_ you," Cole asserted, "You want to forget, but you can't. It's the buzz in the back of your mind, screaming out, crying for light. It remembers you."

The answer was unexpected, and immediately his anger dissipated and the Dragon-Slayer felt himself deflate. He sighed and shook his head.

"Don't repeat that name again," he said. "That life is gone. It's dead."

"It doesn't care. It wants to live." There was a pause. "I won't tell."

"Thank you."

The Dragon-Slayer put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing and shaking it gently as he bowed his head. The sound of his name had brought a flood of memories with it. When he spoke again, his voice was choked with tears.

"Thank you."


	21. This Symbol I am

In a few days, Leliana had confirmed that the scout team had reached Ferelden – and had subsequently vanished. There was no sign of them. Three out of their nine checkpoints had not seen them, and though a few were curious none had sent word to Skyhold. It had been assumed that the group was rerouted.

Dorian and the Dragon-Slayer continued their research, though the news of the scouts' disappearance weighed heavily on the Dragon-Slayer's mind. He had been assured that word would be sent to their families and compensation provided, but it seemed an empty formality. Those families had forever lost their children; and for what? The pressure to disprove his theory had increased tenfold. If it was a simple dragon, he could avenge them. He needed to avenge them. Was that not the Vessel's duty?

The Calenhad tale had been delivered in the early morning. The rider had slept that night – an increasingly rare event – and as soon as he had returned to the rotunda, he studied it. The hours passed. Dorian watched him work from his library, tempted to disturb him, but he realised the severity of the situation and his dedication to see it through. There would be time enough for them to speak. He decided instead to retrieve and catalogue Frederic's studies on hunting patterns, for the professor seemed more willing to deal with him than the Dragon-Slayer.

By the time he returned, notes in arm, he could hear the rider mumbling to himself.

"But _which_ cave system?" he said, "Andraste, guide me, because if you don't I'll dive into those mountains and find my own way."

He straightened and let out a low grumble.

"Damn this."

The Dragon-Slayer stalked to the door that led outside and stepped through it. Dorian noticed the tension in his shoulders, the dark expression on his face. He seemed oddly stressed.

 _I'll invite him to have dinner with me later,_ he decided as he set down his supplies, _Maker knows he could use the distraction._

The mage opened Frederic's notes and took up a quill. He could not take the rider's burden from him, but he could ease it. But as he started to write and annotate, a shadow overcame his desk; the shape of a Revered Mother, Mother Giselle.

"Master Pavus," she said, her hands folded and her head bent, "Greetings to you. I've come to ask about a rather sensitive subject."

Dorian leaned back in his chair, the quill still in hand. "What subject is that, then?"

"I…Some have noticed that you and the Vessel are becoming quite…close. I must ask – what is the nature of your relationship?"

"What does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal, Dorian. This man is not a simple warrior. He is the people's hope, their protector against darkness. For some, he is one of the only symbols of our Maker's love. There are concerns that your friendship is inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" he said, his voice indignant, "The Dragon-Slayer is more than just some symbol, you know. He's a man."

"Yes, but a man who means a great deal. It is pertinent for him to put the people ahead of his own desires – especially if those desires were to lead him astray."

Dorian stood from his seat. "I can't listen to this drivel."

"Please understand, Dorian, that I mean no disrespect. It's simply that, as a Tevinter, any rumoured relation between yourself and the Dragon-Slayer could cause great concern. Even if you _are_ a veteran of Corypheus' war, there are those who do not so readily forget Tevinter's past."

"And so you accuse me of, what? Defiling a Chantry symbol? Seducing a man specifically to strip him of his honour? You know nothing of me _or_ him."

"This is true, I do not know the Dragon-Slayer well," said Giselle, "but I do know what he represents, and how blessed we are to be in an age where there is a Vessel. Their rarity makes them all the more precious, and therefore, all the more important."

"Is that all I am, then?"

The rider's voice startled them. Dorian turned to see him at the top of the stairs, slowly approaching with his arms folded and a cold stare.

"Dragon-Slayer," Giselle stammered, "Forgive me. I did not realise you were there."

"So you would happily say it if I wasn't?" he replied.

"I was simply curious about the young man's intentions. I came with the hope to ease some concerns."

"Came to accuse, more like," said Dorian.

"I meant only to understand. This is no mere game, Dorian. The Vessel—"

"Was it not you who told me that the Vessel's path is not one to take in solitude?" the Dragon-Slayer interrupted. "'Heed the Maker, and remember that He has sent you not just to protect, but to live'. Were those not your words?"

Giselle paused. "I…see." She bowed. "I meant no disrespect, Your Grace. I shall take no more of your time."

The Mother left, though she cast a final glance at the pair over her shoulder before she went downstairs. The Dragon-Slayer's arms were still folded, and he was shaking his head as Dorian looked at him.

"I'm sorry for that," he said, "She shouldn't have come after you."

"No, but it seems to be a favoured hobby of hers," the mage told him. He watched as he moved to the window, where the rider leant his head against the stone frame.

"Did she upset you?"

"It takes more than thinly veiled accusations to get to me." He paused. "Did she upset you?"

The Dragon-Slayer shook his head. "I've long known that who I am doesn't matter to the Chantry. There will always be some unapproved relation, some sacrifice I need to make."

"Are you saying you want to—"

"No," he cut him off, "I'm not. Mother Giselle does not dictate my life."

"I do love a man with some independence." The Slayer smiled. "Bull-headed though he might be."

He chuckled, and then looked down at the floor in silence, a thoughtful expression on his face. When the rider looked back up, he gestured towards the door.

"Come with me," he said, "I need to talk to you."

"Is it about the research?" Dorian asked.

"No."

The Dragon-Slayer did not elaborate, and he went downstairs before Dorian could ask anything else. He had no choice but to follow.

* * *

The pair had left Skyhold's grounds to walk the open ice paths around them. The Dragon-Slayer had insisted Dorian wear a coat, though he himself had chosen not to. He crossed his arms against the cold as they wandered the ancient roads, forever shifting to the will of the snow.

"Any particular reason for us to be out here?" Dorian asked as they walked underneath a natural ice bridge. It was beautiful in its way, a glittering white sea under a cold sun, a place frozen for millennia, and though he was no fan of the cold the mage could appreciate the magnificence of the mountains surrounding them.

"I wanted to be sure Leliana wouldn't hear us," the Dragon-Slayer explained. "Mother Giselle was presumptuous, but her sudden interest in our friendship marks a turning point. The rumours have started. People have noticed how much time we spend together. We're being watched more closely now."

"Is that a problem?"

"In some regards, yes. These rumours will spread – no doubt the Inquisitor is aware of them, and soon perhaps the world. But I find myself not caring as much as I thought I would. You've been a good friend to me, Dorian, keeping my secrets, humouring my theories. I feel closer to you than I have anyone else. It's a…strange feeling. Mother Giselle's tirade has made me realise that I've risked more than I would have for any other person in getting close to you."

"Do you regret it?" he asked.

"No," he said, "but…Cole visited me a few days ago. On the night I promised you…well, he made me remember some things that I'd rather forget."

"Cole will do that."

He laughed. "I haven't told you much about me, and I fear the tales haven't said much of the truth. There are things in my past that I thought I could run from. But as time's gone on I've realised, sooner or later, they will come out. That's the nature of secrets, I'm afraid."

"Oh?" the pair started through a small tunnel.

"Yes. And while I'm not ready to tell you about my past, I wanted to at least tell you that I will, one day. That is, if you're okay to wait."

Dorian rounded on him as they reached the end of the tunnel. He took his hands, pulling him close as he rested his forehead against the Dragon-Slayer's and kissed the top of his lip.

"Of course I am, Dragon-Slayer," he said, his voice low and soft. The rider sighed and held the back of his head.

"Call me Fabriel," he said. Dorian's eyes sparked, but before he could respond the Dragon-Slayer pulled him into another kiss and silenced him.

The pair stood locked in their embrace as the snow mountains loomed around them, and for the first time in a long time, Fabriel felt safe.


	22. The New Day

He awoke in the tower.

Fabriel was not at his side when he did. He sat up and found him near the centre of the room – where the sunlight washed over him – kneeling with his head low in prayer. He was still, and Dorian did not disturb him. Instead he admired his bare torso and broad shoulders, the necklace that he had draped over himself. His body was decorated with a wealth of faded scars.

"O Creator, see me kneel:/ For I walk only where You would bid me./ Stand only in places You have blessed./ Sing only the words You place in my throat," he murmured, "My Creator, judge me whole:/ Find me well within Your grace./ Touch me with fire that I be cleansed./ Tell me I have sung to Your approval."

He watched as the Dragon-Slayer lowered his hands and stared into the empty space in front of him.

"In the absence of light, shadows thrive."

"Not my typical morning routine, but I'm open-minded," Dorian chuckled.

"Dorian," Fabriel rose to his feet, "Good morning. Did I wake you?"

"No. I slept quite well last night. Post-coital bliss."

He put on an opened shirt that sat in a crumpled heap beside him, "One of Leliana's people came. He said the Inquisitor wants to see us."

"Did he mention why?"

"It's either about our research or the rumours. I told them I hadn't seen you, but this," he lifted Dorian's coat from a chair and draped it on the end of his bed, "was on the floor downstairs."

Fabriel laid down beside Dorian, letting out a long exhale as he put his forearms over his eyes. The mage's arm snaked around his waist. He felt his warm embrace and smiled.

" _ **Did he see it?**_ _"_ he asked.

" _ **Yes. It's quite distinct.**_ _"_

" _ **And you're not concerned?**_ _"_

" _ **There will be consequences. I know that. But more than one Vessel has made questionable choices in their lifetime.**_ _"_

" _ **I'm a questionable choice, am I?**_ _"_ Dorian teased. Fabriel turned his head to look at him.

" _ **Not for me,**_ _"_ he said, _"_ _ **But for others.**_ _"_

The pair laid in silence for a while, enjoying each other's presence, the comforting touch of a lover in a moment of peace. Neither of them were eager to leave the bed. But soon, Dorian ventured:

"When did Damien want to see us?"

"Later. He has some matters to attend. I told the Iron Bull I'd spar with him."

"I suppose I should finish cataloguing Frederic's papers," Dorian smiled, "I got distracted yesterday."

Fabriel laughed, "Come, then. Let's start the day."

* * *

The Iron Bull was fast. The rider had not expected it, and found himself adapting his moves to the beat of the fight; a dodge when he would counter; a counter where he would cut. The Qunari could keep him on his toes and he found a challenge in predicting his next attack. For once, he was evenly matched.

The Dragon-Slayer avoided the Iron Bull's swinging maul with a skilful dodge, and when the warrior pulled back he cut up, nicking his forearm with the tip of his blade. Bull brought the weapon down on him again, but his companion ducked and rolled to the side.

He charged forward with his horns and the rider thought he was prepared. He leapt up, ready to roll over the warrior and land on his feet, but Bull snatched his leg and brought him down before he could. His daggers fell wide; they ended up near the training ground's dummies, where Blackwall had sat to watch them. To try and gain the upper-hand again, the Dragon-Slayer rolled out from under his companion and kicked the back of his knee. Bull fell with a grunt.

He sprang to his feet, but he could not reach his daggers in time. The Iron Bull had recovered quick enough to swing at him with his maul; the tip of his weapon connected with the man's midriff and he was thrown back into the tavern. The resounding smack against the wall surprised a passing patrol and several customers inside.

"Not so easy!" Bull snarled.

"Good," he coughed as he leapt up; " _Now_ it's a challenge!"

The pair of them returned to the fray, and when the Dragon-Slayer dived past the Iron Bull's strike he picked up his daggers, rolling to his feet with a wicked smile. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his sharp eyes were concentrated on his partner – the first worthy opponent he had faced since his last dragon.

Bull swung. He went to dive to the side, but an unpredicted change in the weapon's direction forced him to abort and he found himself flipping backwards. This left him vulnerable to Bull's grasp. The warrior caught him the moment he landed and went to throw him to the floor, but the rider's quick-thinking mind made him wrap his leg around his partner's and forced him off balance. The pair fell and rolled on the ground, separated by only an inch of space. They were panting hard.

" _That_ ," said Bull, "was awesome."

The rider coughed and laughed, accepting Bull's proffered hand to help rise to his feet. He slapped his hand on his shoulder once he was up, and the pair laughed through their breathlessness.

"An impressive display," Blackwall said as he stood, "I'm almost jealous. You and I shall have to spar sometime."

"That is, if you're not too busy with lover-boy."

The Dragon-Slayer's eyebrows quirked as he retrieved his daggers, "Lover-boy?"

"We've all heard the rumours, Slayer. Nice work. Dorian's a firebrand. I used to hit that too, before that Corypheus asshole was knocked through the rift."

The rider felt a twinge of jealousy. "Oh? I wasn't aware of that."

"It wasn't a thing. I mean, it was, but it was casual. Different lifestyles."

"It seems you two have different lifestyles as well," Blackwall noted. He was curious if the rumours were true; he had noticed the mage spent a lot of time with the Dragon-Slayer, but he could not imagine he would jeopardise his position so easily. Perhaps there was some attraction, he reasoned, but that was as far as it went. Either way, the Vessel had not confirmed nor denied the rumours, leaving a lot up to the imagine – as he was wont to do.

"Dorian is an excellent researcher," he said, "I enjoy listening to his perspective on our work. He's a good friend."

"Right. And I'm the Empress of Orlais." The rider stared at him for a moment. "You're picturing me in a dress. Wouldn't work. Seamstresses can never get my hip size right."

He laughed and nodded. "Understood. I should go and see if the Inquisitor is finished with his duties. Blackwall, what say you to tomorrow afternoon? That should allow us both time to prepare, no?"

"I'll meet you here," he said, "I want to see how the legendary Dragon-Slayer's blades measure up against a Grey Warden sword."

He agreed, and then went off in the direction of the fortress after he said his farewells. The warriors watched him, silent for a moment, until Blackwall asked:

"What was your read of that, Bull?"

"Oh, they have _definitely_ had sex."

"The rumours have some truth to them, then," he said, "That's…well, I didn't see that one coming. This talk is going to spread, and fast."

"It's not the first time a Vessel hasn't followed code," Bull said, "but it happening so soon after the Breach? Could cause some concern. Ah, we'll see what happens. I'm sure Red's got an entire folder on it."

"I don't doubt. Strange, though. I've a feeling this place is going to become a lot more interesting in the next few weeks."

"I hope so – Varric and me have a bet going on it."


	23. Posterity

_There have been developments in the Great Dragon case. I feel it is best that I write this for my successor – these are the times that challenge the Path, and we must find our own answers when He does not provide them._

 _The Inquisitor called me into his war room this afternoon. Frederic was there. Perhaps at the time this is read he will be a well-known figure of history, but today, he is the bane of my life. He questioned almost immediately the reason for my being there. But the Inquisitor insisted, and so I remained. In these walls, there is no higher authority than Lord Trevelyan._

 _A patrol had brought in a specimen. At first I believed it would be prints of claw marks, perhaps a few scales; I did not expect to find a drake on the examination table. It was dead, of course. There were trauma wounds across its pelt; something much larger had either crushed it or hit it at such a force that it had caused internal injuries. Determining how it died will require further study. Frederic was beside himself to be so close to a near-perfect draconic sample – I felt uneasy. It reminds me too much of the past. I saw my boyhood-self reflected in those dead eyes. If not for Dorian arriving soon after, I may have needed to excuse myself._

 _Insofar as I can tell, based on all the physical evidence, this drake was old. It was near enough a century, I believe – the maximum life expectation of a male. This lends some credence to my theory. I shall return to the specimen tomorrow, without that infernal professor there, and conduct my own examination without his interference. Dorian will help me with the dissection. There is more to this tale than meets the eye._

Dorian had stepped out of the library to visit his lover. He was concerned; the speed at which he left the war room was impressive, and the mage had not had a chance to catch him before he had disappeared entirely. As he walked he could hear the flapping of the ravens above him, the murmuring of spies reporting in. The Inquisition's discovery had sent the fortress into a maelstrom of activity. It would not be long before the Dragon-Slayer would have to reveal his theory to Damien, and after that, there was no telling how events would unfold.

Dorian made sure to bring his finest bottle of brandy with him.

 _Ah, Dorian. Our friendship has evolved faster than I thought it would. I can't explain our attraction. He prefers the finer things in life, and I – I haven't known finery since I was a child lost in Val Royeaux. Perhaps it's our inherent otherness? Or perhaps it's something simpler; he is quite easy on the eye. At the time you read this he could be a beloved symbol of the Imperium's most ambitious reformers, a crusader against the corruption that rots it from the inside out. The stories will do him no justice. He is more than I can ever be. Our shared heritage is where our similarities end._

 _I digress. Great Dragons. Had it not been for the Qunari tale, I wouldn't have even thought of it as a possibility. It was a story I'd heard on my journey out of the Marches. Had I known I would need the information later, I may have asked the teller to write it down. If even a shred of it is true and Calenhad did receive his strength from Great Dragon blood, there will be others who follow. This must be kept a secret until we've determined the creature's location and killed it. I will not risk anyone finding out – Maker forbid, any cult with that much power could topple the world. The Venatori would come down upon us in force._

He stepped out into the garden with the bottle under his arm. He saw a few soldiers – those waiting for a shift change, and others that were about to leave for the Rest and exchange war stories. There were whispers as he passed towards the tower. He focused instead on the wilting roses and dead plants that crawled across the soil, clawing up the patched fortress walls and winding themselves like snakes around the gazebo.

 _Fabriel did say there would be consequences,_ he thought as he ignored a soldier's ice-cold glare.

 _These are the truths I know. This case is shaping up to hold a real terror in the darkness; a dormant force with world-shattering implications should it be roused. There are those who would misuse this power, and the Inquisition must put an end to it before they can. I have prayed for guidance and received silence in response. Time will tell whether or not we are successful._

 _Perhaps I am writing to a figure who no longer exists._

There was a knock at his door. It startled Fabriel, who quickly put his book in its chest and hurried to answer it.

Dorian was on the other side, smiling that charming smile, carrying a bottle of brandy under his arm. The Dragon-Slayer gestured for him to enter.

"You ran out of the war room so fast I didn't have a chance to speak to you," he explained as he stepped inside. He noticed a well and quill on the table as he set his bottle down, and fresh ink prints on his lover's hands.

"I apologise. That must have seemed strange."

"I was concerned," he said, _"_ _ **Did something upset you? Was it the drake?**_ _"_

"It…brings back memories, yes. But no, I'm not upset. I've seen far too many of them for that."

"Then why did you run off?"

"I…" he started, then trailed off and let out a weary sigh. "I wanted to collect my thoughts. This has spilled into a larger mess than I first imagined. I thought it was best to record it for my successor, if there is one."

"If?" Dorian sat down, watching as the Dragon-Slayer collected two glasses and filled each one. There was no fire in the fireplace; almost as an afterthought he reached forward and lit it with magic. Its warmth permeated the air. As he sank down into his seat, Dorian felt a strange sense of homeliness.

"There's a lot to be done." Fabriel sat down across from him and passed over his glass. He seemed agitated, though he tried to hide it; his eyes were distant and he seemed not-all-present in his words. Dorian reached over and took his hand, with that smile on his face that made the world seem remote and unimportant. Fabriel could not help but adore him.

" _ **But not tonight,**_ _"_ he noted, _"_ _ **so let's take this time to criticise Frederic's outfit.**_ _"_

" _ **I was hoping you would mention it – that hurt my eyes.**_ _"_


	24. Dissection

He performed the dissection in a small, secluded room on the lower levels of the main fortress. There was once a secret library there, but Damien had had most of the contents removed and the place redesigned to serve as a private 'practical' space for his Inner Circle. There was a single table in the centre that was surrounded with cases of rare and hard-to-find materials, and equipment enough to sate even the most adventurous of scholars. In one corner of the room was a set of shelves, heavy with banned or frowned-upon literature. There were remnants of experiments there, all of them of questionable morality. If the walls could talk, their whispers would destroy the Inquisition.

Dorian acted as the dutiful assistant. He handed the Dragon-Slayer his tools, occasionally offering insightful comments on the drake's injuries, and watched as his light-touched lover cut through scales upon scales of hide. He removed the claws and teeth for further examination. Helisma would collect them later, once the pair had found all they could. The scales had been reserved by the Inquisitor, who wanted to see if there was some practical – or at least profitable – use for them in the main marketplaces.

"Nine." He heard Fabriel murmur under his breath. "There are nine here."

He had rather painstakingly cut open one of the creature's teeth and was examining it under a magnifying glass. Dorian could not see what he was referring to, and dared break his concentration to ask.

"What have you found?"

Fabriel did not answer immediately. "There are nine rings inside this tooth."

"What does that mean?"

"It's an age indication," he explained as he set the magnifier down. "This drake was at least ninety years old at its time of death."

"Then you were right in the war room."

"I was hoping otherwise."

The Dragon-Slayer pushed the tooth aside and stood up, looking at the dissected creature in front of him. Large pins had been used to hold open soft tissue and the eyes removed prior to his study. It was odd to see such a fearsome beast, a murderer of many a seasoned hunter, divided up as a collection of materials and organs. Dorian had removed various bits and pieces that he had deemed unneeded, but for the most part it was whole – just reduced to its minute particulars.

"I suppose this proves your theory? To some extent at least." Dorian ventured.

"It does," he agreed, "The dragon who could amass drakes of this age would have to be very old itself."

"But that doesn't mean it's a Great Dragon."

"No." The rider put his hands on his hips, not taking his eyes from the creature. "It doesn't."

There was a beat of silence. Then:

"Cause of death is blunt force trauma. There are fractures in the bone here," he pointed to the spine, "here," the nose, "and here," the skull, "and signs of internal bleeding. Whatever did this had enormous force behind it. Perhaps another larger drake, a rock fall, or the queen herself. I'll need a second opinion."

"I can check for you."

"Hardly romantic."

"Ah yes, and spending our morning cutting open a dead dragon is my picture of romance."

The rider chuckled, and then his face regained that severe edge.

"Fine," he replied, though not unkindly, "I trust you more than I trust anyone else to check my work. I don't need to tell you to be careful. But…if you start to feel uneasy, let me know. We can stop at any time."

Fabriel moved from the examination table to a collection of books he had left in an untidy pile near the door, leaving Dorian to start his own inspection of the creature's remains. He noted in the back of his mind that his lover seemed to forget he was a veteran of the Breach – a war in which he saw more than his fair share of dead bodies and gruesome injuries – but he put it down to Fabriel's increasing concern for his wellbeing. The mage did not even flinch as he turned the organs over in his hands, cutting this tendon and that ligament to properly search for signs of stress, and occasionally using a small brush to dust the bones and see more clearly any contusions.

"Hm." He said after a long stretch of silence, broken only by the turning of pages.

"Is there something wrong?" Fabriel asked.

"No," he said, "but I doubt this was a rock fall. The wounds don't match up."

"I suspected as much. We need to present several possibilities to the Inquisitor and his team. Frederic will be given access to the remains later to doublecheck our work – and no doubt contradict every observation I've made."

He set down his book and shook his head.

"I need to write a report," he said as he opened the door to the main cellar, "Do you want to join me?"

"And disappoint all the gossips that'll see us apart? Heaven forfend." He laughed. Fabriel tilted his face slightly away from his lover, his head lowering ever so slightly. "That was a joke. I didn't mean to offend."

"It's not that, it's…uh," the smile he offered was strained and uncomfortable, "Never-mind. It's not important."

"It is to me."

Dorian's voice was soft and sincere, so much so that it caught Fabriel off-guard. There was a care in it that resonated deep within him, a gentleness that he had no idea he longed for. As he closed the door behind him and set his papers down the rider turned to fully face his lover, trying to figure out how best to explain what was bothering him.

"I've heard some of the rumours," he admitted. "They're…not kind."

"I imagine more so for me than you. The evil magister seducing an honourable southern man? There's been plays on that. Bad ones, but there has."

"Our affair has made some question my faith. I'm assuaging fears as best I can, but the public can only be soothed so much before someone insights panic."

Dorian's face changed. His half-smile had become a hard frown, and he looked away from the Vessel to stare at an empty wall.

"Oh. I hadn't expected that quite so soon."

"It doesn't change my opinion on the matter," he said. "I understood there would be consequences and I'm firm in my answer – I'm prepared to withstand them."

"It's hardly been a month, Fabriel. You must understand that this affair of ours will have long-lasting effects, no matter what we do."

"Then so be it. They can do what they will. I'll cope with it."

"Easy to say, but what of when this ends? Are you prepared to suffer the consequences for years to come?"

"…When?"

Dorian realised then that he had made a critical error. Fabriel's expression had changed from impassioned to quietly hurt, and in an instant he saw the trust he had built between them fall to ash.

"I didn't mean—"

"Then why did you say it?" he interrupted. The pair stared each other in the eyes for a beat more – Dorian at a loss for words, Fabriel infuriated – before the rider snatched his papers from the table and moved towards the door.

"If the Inquisitor sends for me, I'm in the tower," he said. "You should wait for Frederic. He'll need help cataloguing the wounds."

"Fabriel—"

"No. Not now. I've been here before and I've seen how it ends. I won't do it again, Dorian." He looked down at the floor just outside of the room, holding the door handle with a vice-like grip.

"I won't."

Fabriel exited the room, leaving a bewildered and hurt Dorian in his wake. The mage could only watch as the door swung shut behind him, an anti-climatic 'click' his parting wanted immediately to rush after him – but there would be too many ears that would hear them, too many eyes to see a heartfelt display of affection. He could only hope the damage he had caused was not too severe, that he would have the opportunity soon to correct himself and assure the rider that he was not simply a new pastime he could occupy himself with. He cared about their little romance, as short as it had been. He did not want it to end, he had just thought it would be the natural conclusion.

 _I have to fix this,_ he thought as he gathered up his supplies, _before anything else happens._


	25. The Revellers

Damien and the Dragon-Slayer rendezvoused in the war room at the end of the day to discuss his findings. The Inquisitor noticed he seemed more sullen than usual. The pair conferred on his discoveries and, after a time, he commented on the rider's mood; a friendly attempt to connect with him, but not one he made lightly.

"It's a long story," he gestured vaguely with his hands.

"Is it about the rumours?" Damien asked. He noticed the man stiffen and quickly added, "I've tried to contain them as much as possible. If you'd like, I can ask Leliana to find the source and put an end to it."

"It's fine, Inquisitor. The luxury of a private life is out of my reach."

"I take my people's privacy very seriously, Dragon-Slayer."

"Rumours are a part of life for men of our status. We are both victims of them, and neither of us have come out worse for wear."

"Are you certain? There could be consequences to this sort of gossip. I could use my resources to mitigate them."

"There _will_ be consequences," he corrected, "and I've accepted them. To attempt to stem the flow of this will send more tongues wagging. I have chosen to remain silent on the matter."

It was at that moment that the door to the war room opened. Through it stepped Dorian and Frederic, the latter of whom rolled his eyes when he caught sight of the Dragon-Slayer. The man's demeanour changed almost immediately once he saw Dorian. He shuffled the papers he was holding and handed one to Damien, his eyes trained on his face as if in defiance.

"This is the amount of time I believe we have to study the specimen before it deteriorates," he said, "an estimate, of course. Dorian should be able to tell you more. He _is_ an expert on expiration dates, after all."

 _Ah, snark_ , Dorian thought, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head as the Dragon-Slayer left the room. Damien noticed the tension between them but decided not to comment on it with Frederic present. He meant what he had said; he valued their privacy, and if there _was_ a romantic element to their friendship, he would question them alone.

"Now that that business is dealt with, you can read my account of the specimen," Frederic said, "It's time you heard from a true professional."

* * *

The Rest was warm and filled with people. He listened to the murmur of conversation around him, the war stories and the lovers at home, the men and women who had never returned from the Breach. He was drinking an ale he was given 'on the house', and he welcomed the chance to drown his sorrows.

"Hey, there he is!" a familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see the Iron Bull take the seat across from him. "Heard you cut up a dragon today."

"Drake," he replied, "but yes. The dissection's done."

"Find anything good?"

"It was old and probably nearing the end of its life. Cause of death was blunt force trauma."

"Oof, that's a way to go."

"It is," he agreed. "I've been informed, though, that Frederic believes it was an illness. How much he believes that compared to how much he wants to disagree with me is up for debate."

"He's got a real stick up his ass."

"The realest." The Dragon-Slayer took a long gulp of his drink and slammed the bottle on the table. Bull noticed his odd mood. "I need another. Care to join?"

"I'm always up for a drink."

"Are you up for several?"

"Something on your mind, Slayer?"

"No," he replied as he got up and started to head for the bar, "I just want to get fucked."

* * *

There were multitudes of empty bottles around them. Their drunken laughter was loud and delightful, and the Dragon-Slayer had all but forgotten his troubles in the haze of intoxication. Blackwall had joined them, and instead of sparring the trio were swapping stories of the Hinterlands, the Wilds, the Wastes – all of those places where great adventures had begun.

"This man," the rider continued through his laughter, "he was _drunk._ He comes up to the post, declares his love for the Maker, picks up a sword and starts to wave it in the air, all the while wearing _nothing_."

"What did you do?" Blackwall roared. He had laughed so hard that there were tears in his eyes.

"At first I was content to live and let live, when he spots me. He throws his sword on the ground, declares _himself_ the Vessel, tells me that I'm an impostor sent by the Old Gods, and then falls to his knees and screams – in front of all the soldiers – 'Andraste, I offer my ass, bask me in your glow'."

The trio fell about, their raucous merriment heard even outside of the Rest. The candles flickered as if excited by their joy, and Maryden's soft lute was drowned in the din. Bull patted the Dragon-Slayer's shoulder, raising his stein in the air.

"To drunk farmers!" he declared, and was met with cheers.

"I thought I heard you," another voice – Dorian's – joined the fray. The men looked up and called his name in greeting, three steins in the air and wide smiles on show. Dorian approached them with an amused shake of the head, though he noted the mountains of bottles that littered their table-top.

"Dorian!" said the Iron Bull, "Come join us! It's Blackwall's round."

"While I'd normally love to help empty Blackwall's pockets, I came for the Dragon-Slayer. We have work to do in the morning."

"Looks like you've got a handler now, Slayer," Bull chortled.

"Ah, a more beautiful handler couldn't be found," he cheered with his trio, then raised his stein, "To Dorian!" and drank with the others. Even Blackwall joined, he noticed, which must have meant their truce and mutual respect for one another had firmly taken root.

"I should help you to your tower, Dragon-Slayer. No use leaving you to stumble over your own feet."

"He must mean business, Slayer," Blackwall laughed, clapping his hand over the rider's shoulder, "Best head home before your better half starts to nag."

The rider raised his hands in defeat and rose from his chair. He almost tripped as he moved towards Dorian, but the mage caught him before he could fall. He supported him on his shoulder, and as they waved farewell Bull and Blackwall collapsed into more fits of laughter.

"News of those two is going to shake Orlais," the ex-Warden commented once the pair were out of earshot.

"Varric owes me so muchcoin. I'll be in drink for years."

"His own fault for betting against a Ben-Hassrath. Speaking of drink…"

The pair cheers-ed and swigged.

* * *

Dorian was careful as he led his lover to his tower. He held firm when ascending the stairs, supported him on uneven floors, and did not let him stumble once; a monumental task in and of itself. Fabriel was in high spirits, though, and did not fight him on the route home.

Once he had managed to open the door and help the man inside, Dorian felt Fabriel let go of him and amble to lean on his armchair instead. The mage looked at him, his hands on his hips and an amused smile on his face.

"I never imagined I'd see you in this state," he said.

"Blackwall and the Iron Bull are wonderful company," Fabriel replied, his eyes bright and cheerful, "Their stories are _hysterical_. I've never laughed so much in my entire life. Dorian, you should have joined us!"

"One of us had to be sober enough to help the other home. It seems I pulled the short straw." Dorian gestured to the stairs, "I'll help you into bed. I'll need to fetch some water for you as well."

"Don't put yourself out on my account. I can take myself to bed."

"You can hardly stand up. Besides, I'd feel better putting you there myself. Can't have you falling down the stairs or going without water."

"Ah." Fabriel stumbled over to him and put his arms around his shoulders. "You worry too much for me, _**amatus.**_ "

The word stunned Dorian to the point where he almost did not notice that Fabriel had started to kiss him. He responded with sweet, unhurried lips, holding his waist so he did not lose his balance. Once they parted the rider held him for a moment, simply enjoying his warmth and comfort, before he suddenly turned and marched towards the stairs with renewed vigour.

"Sleep is in order!" he declared, his movements hampered by alcohol and purpose, "We've a Great Dragon to find! Our minds need to be fresh! To bed!"

Dorian helped him to his room. He undressed him and made sure he was comfortable under the covers before fetching the water, which he put on the old nightstand beside his head. Afterwards he sat beside the rider, leaning down to brush the hair away from his eyes as they fluttered open and closed. Their faces were close, and he could not resist the urge to kiss the bridge of his nose.

"Try not to drown in it," he murmured. A deep exhale left Fabriel's chest.

"Mmm," he breathed, "Home."

He lapsed into sleep. Dorian admired him in his strange state of vulnerability, the almost boyish charm of his relaxed state. As he put his forehead to Fabriel's he quietly, quietly whispered:

" _ **Amatus.**_ _"_

With one more kiss, the mage left him to sleep.


	26. The Duty I Honour

There was tea on the table.

Dorian saw it as he sat down, with Fabriel standing up near a board he had found and pinned a map to. He was reading reports of seismic activity in the area, though his eyebrows bunched every now and then as if battling a headache.

"Nursing a hangover, are we?" the mage asked. His tone was playful and he had a mischievous smile on his face.

"I'm never drinking again."

"Don't go making grand declarations now," said Dorian, "Bull and Blackwall would be crushed."

He chuckled, but did not take his eyes from the reports. "I made enough of those last night."

"Ah. You remember, then?"

"I do. But we can discuss it later. For now we need to concentrate." He reached up to the board and pointed at the area he had cordoned off with string. "I believe this is the epicentre of the earthquakes. These pins are tremor indicators – you can see they seem to form a circle around this one particular spot."

"There's a cave system in that area. Leliana wanted to use it as a smuggling route, but it was too unstable. What's the blue pin?"

"This is where the specimen was found," said Fabriel, tapping on the map, "near the epicentre. I'll need access to that system."

"Did you not hear me? It's wildly unstable. The entire thing could collapse on top of you."

"I need to investigate the area and see if there are any indications of dragons there. It's a risk. But it needs to be done."

"By you?" he asked. Fabriel's head lowered ever so slightly.

"I'm the Dragon-Slayer," he said. "It's my duty."

Dorian observed him for a moment, the resigned slouch of his shoulders and his bowed head, and realised that he could not argue him out of his decision. But, ever one to reject 'duty', he decided to add caveats.

"Alright," he said, "I'll speak with Damien and have a team prepared."

"A team?" Fabriel looked at him over his shoulder, "I don't need a team."

"And I don't need to lose y—to see you die in a cave-in," Dorian retorted, "but we all have to compromise." He stood as he spoke to approach the board, propping up his elbow in one hand and rubbing his fingers together in the other. Fabriel side-eyed him, at once irritated at his insistence and troubled by his concern.

"This is unnecessary, Dorian."

"No, it's not. Someone needs to be thinking about what will happen if there _is_ a Great Dragon lurking down there. While you seem hell-bent on killing yourself, I'll take care of the little things. Like how we'll survive if we were to be attacked."

"I…" he started, and then trailed off into an exasperated sigh. His headache had increased tenfold, but he could not deny that Dorian had a point – even if he was infuriating in his delivery.

"Fine. It's time I told the Inquisitor the full extent of the threat we may face, regardless. The evidence has caused enough concern to warrant it. I'll prepare a report."

"Dragon-Slayer," Dorian called as he made to leave the room, "I want to speak to you tonight. In private. I'll bring wine."

Fabriel paused to look at him, his hand clasped around the edge of the door, and nodded.

* * *

The Inquisitor received the Dragon-Slayer's report at the end of the day. He did not deliver it himself – he had sent a scout, citing a 'prior engagement', and wrote that he wanted Damien to consider the possibility, no matter how ridiculous it seemed, that his theory could be right. That was his cover letter. The report itself made his head hurt.

He had included details, explanations, and had noted that Dorian would soon come to see him about preparing a team for a foray into the cave system he had pinpointed as an area of interest. The rider had admitted in the deepest depths of his report that he would have preferred to go alone, but Dorian 'had insisted'. The Inquisitor noted that for later discussions and forced himself to focus on the real issue – a possible Great Dragon resting deep in the mountains. The very idea was almost too much to imagine. He had lived in Skyhold for almost two years. Could he have built an army on top of a sleeping beast of legend? The Dragon-Slayer wrote of them:

 _There are creatures too many to list in Thedas, and I consider this one the most dangerous of them all. Darkspawn can be killed. The Blights can end. A Great Dragon? Calenhad is the only person in history even thought to have killed one, and even then only in certain interpretations. I cannot tell you that I will succeed, but I will certainly try to destroy this beast – for the Maker, for all of Thedas._

Damien stood and walked to his balcony. He stared at the mountains that surrounded them, the snowcapped cradle that held his fortress, and wondered if the Dragon-Slayer had simply lost his mind. How could a place so beautiful harbour such a terrible threat? How could a creature so powerful have hidden itself away for so long? But the more he considered his evidence – the location of the specimen, the earthquakes, the dissected drake remains, the missing scout team, the dead soldier – he could not help but consider it. Had he not wanted the Vessel as an ally? He needed to listen to him, and perhaps later on confer with Frederic; a man who seemed more and more consumed with their feud than finding out the truth of the matter.

There were falcons wheeling aimless circles in the sky above him. Damien thought about their freedom, and wished, even if just for a moment, that he had that same freedom now, to fly from the helm of duty and find new corners of the world, shed of all the responsibilities that weighed down on his shoulders. But he could not. There were forever a thousand eyes watching him, and he needed to set an example. In that moment he felt a kinship with the Dragon-Slayer. Had the pair of them simply been thrust into a position that vaguely matched their shape, but did not quite fit? Had he ever felt like 'The Herald of Andraste', or had he merely put the needs of the people above his own?

With a deep sigh, the Inquisitor returned to the report.


	27. The Sound of Your Memories

Dorian and Fabriel were in the tower, discussing with one another the developments of the case as a fire danced in the fireplace and threw out warm shadows. There were two glasses of wine near the legs of their chairs, Dorian's less full than his lover's, and their tones were quiet, as if cautious of being heard.

"The Inquisitor sent me a message," the rider told him as he sipped his drink, "He wants to see you as soon as possible to organise an expedition team."

"It will have to wait for dawn," he replied, "I'm certain he'll want his best people on this."

"I'm still not comfortable with it."

"I know." Dorian replied. He said no more, but, though his tone was soft and sympathetic, Fabriel understood that he would not bend to argument. "But, that's enough about work. I believe you and I have something more pressing to talk about."

"We do." He sat forward, "I'm…sorry, for yesterday. That was unfair of me."

"It was certainly a mixed message. We _had_ just had an argument." Dorian sat forward and touched Fabriel's hand, and after a moment the rider let him lace their fingers together.

"We had."

"Fabriel," he ventured, "When you left yesterday, you said you had 'been here' before. What did you mean?"

"I meant…There was another, before you. A long time ago. He and I met during the Blight in Ferelden."

"As romantic a setting as any," Dorian said, then, after a beat, "Who was he?"

"His name was Cadoc. He was a Warden. I saved his life, and in return he helped me fight through the darkspawn to Denerim. It was difficult. We almost died a few times. We learnt to rely on each other for everything – protection, strength, companionship. By the time we reached the city, we were intimate."

"I assume it didn't end well," Dorian squeezed his hand to encourage him. Fabriel's eyes had taken on that dreamy, distant appearance they often had when he was reaching into long-buried memories. He still remembered all the little details about Cadoc, even after ten years; his face, his shape, the smell of his hair, even the little whistle that came out of his nose when he slept. It hurt to think about him.

"No," he replied. "I hadn't told him I was the Vessel. I just said I was a traveller, hoping to reach Denerim to see lost family members. I hadn't expected that we would…well, he found out. He wasn't angry with me, but in an instant his attitude towards me…changed. He no longer saw me as a person, at least not the one he had seen before. I had divine purpose, and he had to protect that purpose – to sacrifice, as Wardens are sworn to do.

"He ended our relationship. I was furious. Confronted him. He told me, 'I can't be the one who takes the Vessel's side.' The Vessel. That's all I was to him."

He shook his head with a bitter laugh.

" _ **Just the Vessel…**_ _"_

Dorian shifted his chair closer to him. The squeal its legs made against the floor threatened their peaceful quiet, but the rider seemed not to notice. Once he was at his side, he leaned against his shoulder and kissed his cheek.

"There's more that matters than the titles one doesn't choose," he pointed out, "Cadoc was a fool. A noble fool – but a fool nonetheless."

"Was he?" Fabriel questioned, his voice soft and uncertain. "Look at what's happened. The Inquisitor has received letters asking if the rumours are true – if I've been swayed by Tevinter influence. Giselle is worried I plan to retire from service. Varric asked me whether or not you start fires during sex."

"He's always been curious about that."

"Could he not have asked the Iron Bull? That was a very uncomfortable question."

"Ah," said Dorian, "Bull told you, then?"

"He did. I didn't expect it, to say the least. A Tevinter and a Qunari? I suppose the war made for strange bedfellows."

"He was what I needed at the time. We knew it wouldn't be forever when we started, and it ended soon after the war."

"There's no need to explain, Dorian," Fabriel assured him, "I trust you."

It was a little phrase, but one that meant worlds to the Dragon-Slayer and, subsequently, Dorian. The mage looked at him, cast in that familiar firelight, those shadows dancing across his face, and rested his chin on his shoulder so he could wrap his arms around his waist. Their position was slightly awkward, but neither were willing to move.

"Do you know what happened to Cadoc, after the Blight?" he asked. He was careful about the question – the Wardens were, after all, not in the best of states – but Fabriel seemed to appreciate it, in his own way. Perhaps he had held on to the pain for too long, and now it had finally eased? Dorian could not say.

"He and I were separated soon after he ended our relationship," he said. "It wasn't our choice, but it happened. Darkspawn overran the area we were in and we never managed to find each other afterwards. I moved on. He sent me letters up until a year ago, after Corypheus. I don't know where he is now. Perhaps he died at Adamant. I…hope he's happy, wherever he is."

He put his hand over Dorian's and reminisced about that time in his life. It was a dreadful year – the Blight had taken far too many, and he had escaped only by the skin of his teeth – but Cadoc had offered him hope. Courage. Love. When he had lost him, when Cadoc had rendered him a symbol alone, he felt as if his entire heart had been torn out. How could he have trusted someone with it again? How could he not accept his fate, to be alone in his duty for all of time?

But then he looked at Dorian. A man who had risked so much to come to the aid of the Inquisitor, who had faced demons, darkspawn, and all manner of horrors to protect those who would have left him to die, who had seen the faults of his peers and forced himself to not reflect them, and he felt – warmth? Affection? Perhaps even love? He just knew he did not want him to leave, even if he had to withstand the ire of all Orlais.

"It's late," he said, "We should retire."

"Then sleep in an hour or two?" Dorian said, eyebrows raised and smile mischievous. Fabriel laughed and caressed the edge of his jaw.

"I like the sound of that."


	28. Cave of the Damned

The mouth of the cave was dark and ominous and the tunnels seemed to go on for miles. When he stared down into those dense shadows, the Dragon-Slayer felt as though he could feel the beast's breath against his skin, the heat of a flame that threatened the world. The mountains around them loomed high, rising above the thick storm clouds overhead, and every now and then a squawk of some animal would pierce through the air and fall suddenly silent. The team had settled in a small ravine near the mouth, shielded from the bitter wind and intermittent snowfall.

There was a large force behind them, a number of them soldiers and researchers, and the professor, the Inquisitor and the Iron Bull, Cole, Blackwall, Cullen and Dorian were all in attendance. Efforts to stabilise the area had been met with difficulties, but Cullen seemed confident in his people. The others helped to put up the tents and set out tables for the researchers while the work went on. The cold had settled in their bones despite their thick outfits; all but the Dragon-Slayer had started fires to keep warm. Their smoke clouds rose up on the wind at an odd angle.

"The men have a handle on this area of the cave," Cullen said to the Inquisitor as the rider walked past. He was drawn into the conversation with a beckoning of the hand, "but we haven't any idea what conditions will be like further inside."

"We'll need to be careful," said Damien. "No unnecessary risks. This is a reconnaissance mission, not a battle."

"If we come across the harem, Inquisitor, that will quickly change," the Dragon-Slayer pointed out.

"Then we move slowly. No unnecessary risks, Dragon-Slayer. That's an order."

His smile was tight and strained, "Of course, Inquisitor."

He moved towards the tents. His determination rolled off of him in waves; the researchers were too nervous to approach him, and even the soldiers seemed reluctant to break his focus. Dorian, of course, was not so deterred.

"The stabilisation is going slowly, but it's going," the mage said as he went past, catching his attention near one of the tables, "We should be able to move soon. Are you feeling alright?"

"The sooner we do this, the better. Eighteen entrance points and all but one of them are inaccessible. It's unsettling."

"It certainly isn't ideal," Dorian agreed.

"I keep telling myself it's the earthquakes' doing. But we still don't know why the earthquakes happening. We need answers."

"That's why we're here."

Fabriel shook his head, his manner agitated, perhaps even annoyed. Dorian's eyebrows quirked and he tilted his head to one side.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"I'm uncomfortable with you being here," he said, "This is dangerous. I didn't believe the Inquisitor would choose you to come."

"I'm part of the Inner Circle, and I've been through worse than this. Of course he would choose me."

"None of us have been through worse than this," Fabriel said, waving his hand in front of him with a hard stare, "I didn't want you here, not when we don't know what's down there."

"I can handle myself, Dragon-Slayer."

"I don't doubt it. But this isn't a demon attack, nor is it a rift to be sealed up and forgotten. It's a beast that could tear down entire nations if it wanted to. I don't want you to be in its line of fire."

"Nor do I want you there," said Dorian, and Fabriel's heart softened at his tone, "but we're the best men for the job. It won't be easy, I know that, but I'll feel better with you at my side."

The Dragon-Slayer did not reply, only turned and leant against a tent post, looking out at the people that were struggling to stabilise the cave mouth. If it were up to him, he would have been alone. Those people – the soldiers and the researchers that had been chosen to come – he could see their tombs etched in that rock face, scorched into the stone with a single, flaming breath. He did not want more blood shed for his 'divine purpose'. He did not want more graves dug in his name.

He did not want to fail Dorian as he had failed his brother.

"I should leave you to prepare," he said after a moment, "I'll see to the researchers."

"Wait."

Dorian caught his arm before he could leave. Fabriel turned to him, and was met with concern, a warm affection in the mage's eyes that made him pause.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe this was important. Even if it is dangerous, _this_ is where I want to be."

The Dragon-Slayer observed him, searching his face for any hint of dishonesty – something that told him he was saying what he thought his lover wanted to hear. But he could find none. He was not sure if that made him feel better.

He put his hand on Dorian's and squeezed it as he removed it from his arm.

"I know," he said, and left.

* * *

The first hour in the tunnels, not much was found. The rider made notes of the system as he went.

 _Rough terrain,_ he thought as he and the team travelled, _Enough to bloody feet, especially if running. The walls could cause the wounds I saw on the soldier's hands. But we must be a mile deep now, at least. How did he escape with those injuries?_

The party was cautious and made slow progress. Damien did not want to wander too far; he had not planned on a full expedition, not yet, not when the system was still so unknown to them. He wrote down the paths taken and resolved to turn them over to Leliana, so that the pair could decide whether or not it was safe – or wise – to send more people through. He found much instability but, if the Dragon-Slayer was right, it would need to be taken as a calculated risk.

In a few minutes, the rider paused. He was ahead of the team, and raised his hand for them to stop, staring at something in the darkness. He had crouched low to the floor, kneeling on a single knee and becoming suddenly still.

"What is it?" said the Iron Bull, only to be met with an aggressive shush. The Dragon-Slayer's eyes never left the darkness in front of them.

"I saw movement," he whispered after a beat.

"Where?" Damien hurried to join him, his movements quick and quiet.

"There. It's using the darkness to hide itself."

"Should we approach it?"

"No. It knows this place better than we do. And if there are more? It would be a massacre."

"Then what do we do?"

"For now? No sudden movements. Drakes are territorial, but we stand more chance of escape if we don't antagonise them."

"Escape? I would have thought you'd want to fight them."

"I do," he admitted, "but I'd rather survive that battle, to be honest with you. We're too blind here."

"Then what's your suggestion? Escape and do what?"

There was quiet as the Dragon-Slayer thought. "Escape and return with more torches. We need to be back before nightfall. The drakes might come out to hunt. I see a structure up ahead, but not what it is. Ruins, most likely. We need equipment to scale walls, if it comes to that."

"Fine," said Damien, and then gestured to their companions to start backing out of the tunnel. "We'll go and fetch the equipment and return with it. Come on."

"I'll stay here," he said. "I need to observe them, if I can. Protect your people, Inquisitor."

"You are my people."

Damien saw him turn his head towards him, a flash of emotion in his eye, but what it was he did not know. It had vanished almost the moment he saw it.

"I'll be fine," he said, "Quickly, now. The drakes might have picked up our scent. If you I'm not here when you come back, wait. I'll return within an hour. I promise."

"Slayer—"

"Go, quickly. And Inquisitor," he paused to look at him, "Protect him."

The Inquisitor stared at him, processing the instruction, and nodded. With that, he quietly hurried to join his people's side, and left the rider where he knelt.

"Where's the Dragon-Slayer?" asked Dorian the moment he noticed Damien approach alone. The Inquisitor waved in his direction and shook his head.

"He's chosen to stay behind. He'll wait here for our return."

"What?!" he exclaimed, though it was more a hiss, "No. I won't leave him."

"We need supplies, Dorian," the Iron Bull pointed out, "and he's more likely not to die than the rest of us. Well, most of us."

"If we hurry, we can be back before long. But we need to leave _now_. The Dragon-Slayer can handle himself." Blackwall said. Dorian wanted to argue more, wanted to volunteer to remain behind and protect him, but he saw Damien's resolute face and knew it was not a negotiation. His lover would be alone, and he was determined to return to his side before too much time could pass. He did not like it, but he could do little more.

"Fine, then," he said, "Then we need to go now. I don't want him in here without support for long."

The Inquisitor nodded and the team departed. Before turning a corner, Dorian turned to look back at his lover, kneeling in complete silence, eyes rooted on the darkness, and felt his heart ache.

 _Be safe,_ _ **amatus**_ _,_ he thought as he followed his team, and the Dragon-Slayer vanished from sight.


	29. Ruins

On their return, the Dragon-Slayer was not there.

The spot he had been left in was empty, and the dust on it had resettled – as if he had never even been inside the cave at all. Dorian remained calm, but inside he was frantic. He had expected Fabriel to stay close even if he had needed to hide himself, at least until he had returned. The Inquisitor told his people to wait, noting that there was no blood nor signs of a struggle, and hoped to himself that that meant the rider had not run into trouble while he was alone.

The team waited in the shadows, quiet and watchful, none of them willing the break the silence that had washed over them. Dorian ran through possible scenarios in his head as to why his lover had vanished, but that only worried him more. He did not want to imagine him hurt or, worse, killed after having been taken by surprise. No one moved until a stirring ahead of them caught their attention. From the darkness emerged the Dragon-Slayer, his dripping blades in hand and his face smeared with blood.

"Slayer!" the Inquisitor was the first to speak – a mercy, as Dorian had almost exclaimed his true name in relief. "What happened?"

"I moved ahead while you were gone," he replied, wiping a blade on his trousers, "It was safer than having you come with me."

"You sent us back to gather supplies so you could move forward without us?"

"Yes," he said. "I understand that might upset you. I did it only for your benefit, Lord Inquisitor. I can fight these creatures, in any terrain. It made no sense to put you all in danger."

Damien's brow furrowed and he gesticulated as he spoke, "I said no unnecessary risks, Dragon-Slayer. No one on this team is expendable."

"Nor are we prattling maids that need hiding away in our towers," mentioned Blackwall. His tone was not angered but annoyed; he wanted a good fight, and felt he had been cheated out of one. The rider nodded at them as he sheathed his blades.

"I mean no disrespect, Inquisitor, but this was not a matter of expendability nor me doubting your skills. It was in the name of convenience."

"Convenience?"

"I mentioned I saw a structure ahead. The area needed to be cleared before we could move forward, and now we have torches enough to investigate." He turned and pointed into the shadows, "I was close to it but I didn't have the chance, or light, to see what it was. There weren't many drakes, but more may come. We should be on our guard."

"There _were_ drakes, though? That proves your theory, right?" the Iron Bull pointed out. His voice seemed gleeful, and for a moment the Dragon-Slayer wondered if he was entirely sound of mind.

"It proves there's a draconic presence here, but no more. In any case, a dragon is enough to be cautious about. Shall we proceed, Inquisitor?"

He gestured for Damien to lead. The Inquisitor took point and went ahead, his team following behind with their weapons drawn and their eyes sharp, illuminated by the flame of their torches. The rider moved into step with Dorian. He did not speak at first, but he could feel the mage's eyes on him, searching him for injuries.

"There's no need to fuss," he murmured, his voice low to avoid the echo. Dorian's reply was whispered but hissed with fury.

"I wouldn't have to do it if you didn't insist on needlessly putting yourself in danger."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."

The mage paused. Fabriel's tone was sincere, though he did not look at him and his facial expression did not change. His eyes were rooted ahead, as if he anticipated what was to come, what the team would find hidden away in those dense, ancient shadows. There were secrets to be uncovered, and he feared what those secrets would whisper.

"Just don't send me away again," Dorian said, returning his gaze to the path, "The situation is bad enough. We don't need to lose you on top of it. _I_ certainly don't."

He nodded. The pair lapsed into silence, and the only sound was of boots on the stone, echoing forever down the winding tunnels.

* * *

"These ruins are Tevinter."

Damien's voice sounded alien in the half-crumbled structures around them. It thundered much as a hollow case would against a metal wall, and even the Dragon-Slayer had to resist the urge to flinch.

"That's…interesting. Not what I expected," he said.

He was examining the architecture of the place, admiring the curves and twists of the stone, the ancient paths walked by people long dead and buried. In his mind, he wondered if his mother's ancestors had ever been there – if he was standing in a spot some distant relation had stood, unaware that in a thousand years their descendant would return to the place in ruin. He could see a few buildings still relatively intact and staggered up a number of levels cut into the stone; no homes, he noticed, which at least ruled out the idea that it was once a town set inside the mountain itself. Their torchlight stretched only so far and so most of what he saw was still shrouded in shadow, looming quietly in its silence.

"Perhaps these were research facilities," he mused aloud, "Dorian, what do you think?"

"I'm not sure. It could have been. Not much to go on from what's left."

"The sun sets but we don't see it – no one wants to remember what safe feels like," Cole muttered, "Red inside and out, hot shadows hurrying closer, I-I can't—can't stop the shouting in my fingertips, can't stop—"

"Easy, Cole. Deep breathes." The Iron Bull soothed. The rider watched as his friend approached the spirit and rested a steadying hand on his shoulder, as if anchoring him to this world, the world of the material and inflexible. He seemed to care a great deal for him.

"There's a lot to examine here." The Dragon-Slayer soon said. "We would do well to return to it later, if we can. It could tell us more about the system. Or, at least, we could find out _why_ it's here, inside a mountain of all places."

"Dorian?" Damien asked. The mage looked at him, hands on his hips and a strange bewilderment on his face.

"The ancient Tevinters had quite a few areas of study, a lot of which has been lost to time. It could be a laboratory for some dead craft, for all we know. But I agree with the Dragon-Slayer. It's worth a closer look."

"Alright. Then we'll—"

A noise interrupted him – a roaring, too small for a dragon, edged with the sort of chittering that the rider immediately recognised to be a drake's call. The team unsheathed their weapons, and Fabriel found himself glancing at Dorian and his glowing rune-infused staff, checking to be sure he was alright.

"What was that?" Damien asked, his voice quiet, afraid to be heard.

"Drakes," said Fabriel as he crouched to the cracked floor, "Be ready."

"Can we see them?"

"No," said Blackwall, "but there's a light down that tunnel there. Do you see it? Fire."

"It's very angry," Cole told them as he readied his blades.

"Dragon-Slayer, take point. Bull and Blackwall will come in behind you, and Cole, Dorian and I will bring up the rear."

"There will be more than one." The rider told him, and then moved forward. Dorian watched as he dipped in and out of the shadows, keeping low to the ground, hurried on feet that had practiced this dance a thousand times before.

 _At least this time, I'm with him,_ he thought as he followed.


	30. Drakes

The moment he stepped from the tunnel and into some sort of hall, Fabriel's eye was caught by a flash of red to his left. It was all the warning he had before a hot claw sank into his side and threw him across the room, where he collided hard with a worn statue on a solid plinth. He was winded, and a dull pain shot across his muscles.

"No!" Dorian shouted. In an instant the shadows were alive; writhing, serpentine scales were all the team could see, and out of the darkness the drakes prowled forward with bared teeth and salivating jaws. Their hiss filled the air as one unanimous voice.

Fabriel forced himself to his feet. His daggers were out and he crouched low to the floor, ignoring the protest in his muscles and the pain that his bleeding wound caused him.

"What's the plan here?" the Iron Bull asked as he reared up his maul. One of the drakes came too close and he struck out at it, but it only hissed and dodged out of the way.

Dorian was thankful for his necromancy skills as he summoned spirits, for as soon as the purple-black creatures appeared draped in mist and Fade-essence the drakes seemed wary. He wanted to reach Fabriel, but the traveller was cut off from the main group by the horde – the spirits were to help him clear a path, perhaps even strike some of their enemies down in the process.

"Come on!" said Fabriel, flourishing his blades with a well-practiced twirl; "Let's see how much scales and teeth will protect you!"

And as if the drakes had been waiting for his signal, the battle was on.

The first wave that came at the main group consisted of fifteen drakes, all with evil yellow eyes and molten red scales. Their advance left Dorian little time to analyse them, but he noticed one thing before the flurry of claws and teeth that was to follow – the air of malice around them was almost stifling.

"Nice try!" roared the Iron Bull as his weapon connected with the side of a creature's head, and then suddenly they were bearing down on them, separating them from each other with embarrassing ease.

Fabriel had handled drakes before. Harems were a rarity, but he had come more than a few in his lifetime; and he put that experience to the test as he slashed and sliced across snouts and eyes, dancing just out of the way of their claws and teeth. Their tails were razor-sharp but, unlike their larger queens, drakes could not use them as effectively. The traveller was able to evade every attack with expert footing. His wound stung with each flip; he had to focus on the weight of his blades, the beat of his heart, and the rhythm of his feet to ignore the pain that radiated from it.

The fight was not without its challenges. Far more of the drakes had remained than he thought – if he had to take a guess, there were over fifty in that room, and however many more left stationed with the queen. It did not leave a good taste in his mouth. A harem that large would have taken hundreds of years to develop. He could not ruminate on what that meant for his theory as he dodged away from their attacks.

"Avoid the tails!" he shouted to the others, just in time for Dorian to block a strike. The mage looked up to flash him a dazzling smile, and then he was lost again in the sea of scales and claws.

The Iron Bull killed his fair share of drakes. He felt the power in every blow they dealt him, and when he struck out with his own he was frustrated at their agility; Qunari his size were not as lithe or as quick, and he felt that disadvantage more keenly than he ever had before. Blackwall dived beside him with his shield to protect him from an oncoming strike – it reverberated off of it, a hard _thud_ and a hiss of annoyance.

"Careful!" warned Damien over the noise; "I don't want any more deaths!"

"Then watch what you're doing!" Dorian retorted, just before he conjured a portal of spirits to save the Inquisitor from advancing drakes. Damien gave him a thankful smile, but then returned to the fray.

Cole had found himself in a thinner patch of enemies near the door and disposed of them as quickly as he could. The drakes loomed near him, bearing their terrible fangs, and the spirit slashed and stabbed at their eyes, deploying the variety of attacks he had learnt in his time with the Inquisition. Blackwall soon saw him by himself and leapt to his aid. The pair managed to clear a small semi-circle around them, but the beasts kept coming. There seemed to be no end to them. Their screaming left Cole with a headache that crept down to his spine.

Fabriel had not faced a harem in years, and when he stared into their evil eyes he could swear he saw scorn in them. One snapped its long snout at him; he dodged and avoided it, but another had crawled up behind him to strike. He was not fast enough to stop it. The attack sent him sprawling across the floor.

Dorian cried out when he saw the drakes swarm.

"Fabriel!" he shouted, sending out wave after wave of spirits in an effort to clear a path to him; "Hold on, Fabriel! I'm coming!"

"Dorian! No!" the Inquisitor aimed and sent an arrow whizzing through the air in Fabriel's direction. He heard an inhumane yowl, but none of the drakes so much as moved out of the scrum.

Once he had come close enough, Dorian did all he could to beat back the horde. Sweat beaded from his forehead and he could feel his energy waning, but he fought through the blur around the corners of his vision. He did not need to imagine what would happen if he did not free his lover from their clutches. Spirit upon spirit was brought down upon them, tearing their scales from their hide, ripping new wounds in tough skin, but the creatures only squealed and snapped at them, with occasional patches parting to escape the torment and converge on their prey elsewhere. The mage took to beating the creatures with his staff, but it did little more than irritate them. Fabriel's voice came out in short barks of anger, and every now and then he caught a flash of skin, the flurry of his blades fighting for freedom.

Then, the Iron Bull noticed something strange. As he swung at one of the drakes, it reared up and hissed at him, then retreated into a small tunnel – and did not return. The next one did the same thing. Hauling his weapon through the beasts, he watched as they seemed to pause for a moment, snapping and hissing at each other as though in conversation, and then one-by-one they turned and followed their brothers out of the room.

"Boss?" said Bull uncertainly as he brought his maul down on a smaller, slower drake's head; "Boss, I…I think they're retreating."

"What?!"

Damien turned to the room at large and saw that he was right. The creatures were backing up and hissing at them – a warning not to follow – before turning to file out, as if acting on one thought. The Inquisitor held up his hand to still his companions. In the corner, panting hard, Cole and Blackwall came to a slow halt.

The horde that had swarmed Fabriel started to disperse. Damien caught sight of some of them – slashed snouts and blinded eyes, and a vibrant red sheen across their scales. The traveller's eyes were screwed shut as Dorian fell to his knees beside him, caressing his injured face, the wounds littering his chest and shoulders. He was muttering under his breath – what, Damien could not hear – but Fabriel heard his little Tevene comforts, whispered directly into his ear as he fought through the pain to maintain consciousness. There was one long cut that ran down almost the entire length of his stomach, and he felt it with every breath.

"What the _fuck_ just happened?" Blackwall asked. The rider heard him and wrenched his eyes open, forcing himself to his knees with a pained grunt and Dorian's support. The team watched the pair, aware that any attempt to help would perhaps hurt the Dragon-Slayer more.

"It…could be a—a signal," he panted, "The queen could—could have called them back. A retreat."

"But why would she do that? For all she knows, the drakes were controlling that fight. Unless there's some sort of telepathy at work here?"

Fabriel let out a harsh, short laugh, accompanied with a fit of coughing as Dorian helped him to his feet. The mage had his hand pressed against his stomach wound and a concerned look on his face. "No telepathy. Just a hive mind. A harem of that size is guarding a very powerful queen. It's— **argh** —it's dangerous to be here much longer."

"Agreed," said Damien, "The Dragon-Slayer needs his wounds tended to as soon as possible. We're retreating and returning to Skyhold."

"The cave—"

"I'll have a watch set up around it," he interrupted, "You need a healer, hot food and a real bed. This place will be protected in the meantime."

"They will hunt!" he protested. "Less experienced soldiers will die."

"If you aren't seen to, _you'll_ die. Dorian, keep hold of him. If you need a break, Bull and Blackwall will switch out with you."

The mage nodded, but he had no intention of letting his lover go – not even for a second. Cole swept to the side as the pair passed back towards the exit tunnel and followed quickly after them, keeping a watchful eye on Fabriel as he went, his movements slow and laboured. As they proceeded onwards, Dorian's voice carried as an echo:

"Arguing with the Inquisitor was wasted breath – I have absolutely no intention of letting you stay out in the cold."

Before Blackwall and the Iron Bull could follow, the Inquisitor stopped them. The warriors looked at him with raised eyebrows, and in a quiet voice he asked:

"Did you hear Dorian call the Dragon-Slayer Fabriel?"

They paused. After a moment, the pair nodded and their voices dropped down to a low mutter.

"Leave it for now, Boss," Bull advised, "Let Red know if you have to, but hold off on Dorian for a while. He's not going to react well to questions until the Slayer's on his feet again."

"I agree. They're involved and the Dragon-Slayer's been injured. Whatever questions we have can wait until he's recovered, at least enough to walk unaided."

Damien considered their words and soon agreed with them. The reasoning was sound and, in truth, he had seen the worry in Dorian's eyes, the horror as he saw his lover's wounds and helped him to his feet. Until he had shown some recovery, questions about sensitive subjects could spark anger on Dorian's part.

But as the warriors filed out ahead of him, nursing their own wounds and injuries, Damien could not help but think:

 _The Dragon-Slayer's name is Fabriel._


	31. Hold Dear the Secrets You Keep

He slept with Dorian at his side. The mage had not left him since their return five hours before, and on his behalf he dealt with the healers, questioned his salves, and held his hand while he slipped in and out of consciousness. His wounds were enough to cause the healers concern, but not enough for medical intervention – he would need no surgery, just regular care and rest. The bed he had been provided was made of solid wood, Orlesian in design, and the mattress was stuffed with goose down and covered with a number of warm, thick blankets, as well as some silks the mage had made a servant collect from his own quarters. There were a few shelves around them heavy with novels, trinkets hailing from the furthest corners of the world, and it was on these that he had set down Fabriel's medicines; his salves and spare bandages, and a basin of cool water on the floor near his chair in case he woke with a fever.

Dorian was protective of him as he slept. They were in a room in the healer's tower, and he refused entry to people he saw as unneeded; the Inquisitor and his team were allowed in, as well as the advisors, but other than that only the healers were permitted. He did not want his lover's rest disturbed.

"Piled high the blankets, have you?" Damien asked when he entered for the second time since their return.

"He fell in the snow the first time he lost consciousness," Dorian replied as he stood at Fabriel's bedside, "I wanted to be sure he wasn't cold. Do you think he's too warm?"

"No. Our healers tell me he'll make a full recovery."

"He's strong. It takes more than a few dozen drakes to kill him, evidently. But that wound on his stomach worries me. It went much deeper than the others." Dorian stroked his lover's hair, noting his eyelids were screwed shut, as though fighting a nightmare.

"Don't worry yourself too much, Dorian. The Dragon-Slayer's in the best place with the best care available."

"I hope you're right."

Damien observed him for a moment, standing sentinel at Fabriel's bedside, and decided not to ask about his name – not yet, at least. He would withhold the information from Leliana until he had a chance to speak with him. There was no use in antagonising him at such a difficult time.

"Tell me if either of you need anything," he said as he went to close the door, "I'll have it sent for immediately."

"Thank you, Damien." His voice carried a note of sincerity that seemed out of character for him. He still had not looked away from his lover.

The door shut. Dorian leaned over to Fabriel's ear and whispered:

" _ **Wake up soon, amatus. I need you to.**_ _"_

* * *

There was quiet in Skyhold as people coped with the news of the Vessel's injuries. Mother Giselle comforted them as best she could, relaying to them that the healers were confident in his recovery, but it did little to ease their fears. A number of them believed that, even if he was to survive, his flowering relationship with Dorian would soon see him swayed to Tevinter. She told them that this was not true – that regardless of his fancies, the Dragon-Slayer was loyal to the south and would not leave them without their Vessel. It did not convince them entirely, but it did calm them.

The advisors discussed with each other how to proceed with the rider out of service. Josephine had mentioned that it was imperative to send researchers to examine the ruins, and with support from Cullen's soldiers the plan was set. Leliana arranged for her couriers to handle any sensitive items found. The Inquisitor joined them in the courtyard to discuss their plan, and was pleased that, if nothing else, the Dragon-Slayer's state had spurred his team into cohesive action.

"Inquisitor," said Cullen as he approached, "How is he? Has he woken up yet?"

"He's slipping in and out. Dorian seems to have it under control."

"Dorian at the side of the Dragon-Slayer in his most vulnerable – we won't be able to ignore the rumours much longer," Leliana mentioned.

"Should we provide a statement? It's imperative we control the flow of this if we have any hope of assuaging the people's fears." Josephine had her clipboard in hand, the melted candle firmly entrenched but unlit, and was holding a quill aloft as if she intended to start a draft right there. Damien shook his head.

"No," he said, "It's not their right to know the Dragon-Slayer's private life. If and when he wants to, we'll make a statement with him. Until then, we continue as we have."

"Of course, Inquisitor," she said, though she seemed uncertain, "I'll continue to fend off the letters, then."

There was a shout. Damien looked up to the ramparts to see an archer calling out to him; and it was all the warning he had before the gates started to open, and in swept a hooded figure on a powerful stallion, before the iron even had a chance to clack into place.

The figure pulled their horse to a quick halt. They dismounted rather unceremoniously and all but ran over to him, quite frantic as they said:

"Where is he?"

Damien and his advisors started, and Cullen put a hand on his hilt with a wary look. The figure – a man – sounded familiar.

"Where _is_ he? The Dragon-Slayer – where has he been taken?!"

"S…Solas?" the Inquisitor said at length. The figure paused, and an age seemed to pass as he regained his composure and pulled down his hood.

It was indeed the elf, his bald head and his intelligent eyes, that hid behind that cloak. His expression was one of worry and contained panic, his mouth a soft frown as if he was upset.

"Inquisitor," he said, and his voice was strained and hurried, as it had been when he had asked for help rescuing his spirit friend, "I understand it's been a long time. But before I explain anything, I need to see the Dragon-Slayer. Please."

"Where have you been?" he asked, for his shock had disallowed him from registering the elf's words.

"I'll explain everything _later_ ," he replied, emphatic in his tone, " _after_ I've seen him. Inquisitor, I beg you. Take me to the Dragon-Slayer."

Damien hesitated for a moment more while his advisors stood silent and in shock. Then, after a time, he nodded.

"Alright," he said. "Come with me."

"Thank you," he said in relief.

* * *

Dorian had been applying more salve to Fabriel's wounds when the door to his room slammed open. Solas had all but kicked it in his haste to enter, and before the mage could react he had rushed to his lover's side.

"No, no, no," he was murmuring as he cupped the man's face, "Fabriel, Fabriel, what have they done to you?"

" _Solas_?!" the mage exclaimed. Behind him followed Damien, who saw his confusion and matched it with raised hands and a shrug. The elf caressed the wounds on the Dragon-Slayer's face, fussing over this cut and that, before he looked at them with furrowed brows, a hand laid on the man's shoulder, and asked in a forceful, serious tone:

"What _happened_?"

"He was attacked by—hold on, what are _you_ doing here? What the hell is going on?"

"He was attacked by what? Demons? Drakes? Bears? I need to know, I need to—" Solas suddenly stopped and closed his eyes, his mouth closing as he fought to compose himself. He straightened and turned to them, with his hand still outstretched to the Dragon-Slayer. "Forgive me. This must be confusing for you."

"Just a touch," said Damien. "What's going on, Solas?"

"I…" he started, and then trailed off into a frustrated sigh. He looked again at Fabriel, unconscious on the bed and blissfully unaware of what was happening around him. The sight of his wound-riddled face made him take a moment to steel himself.

"This is…difficult to explain," he said.

"All the more reason to start," the mage countered.

"I suppose you might know this, Dorian, but…this is Fabriel," he said as he gestured to the man, "He's…my son."

"Come again?"

"I can explain more, but later. I need to examine his injuries."

"He's receiving the best possible care he could," Damien said, "Explain, Solas. Now."

He sighed again. "Alright. But not here."

* * *

Dorian, Solas and the Inquisitor had retreated to the war room, with Dorian issuing express orders to the healers that any updates were to be sent straight to him and without delay. He felt uncomfortable with the distance between himself and Fabriel. He worried that he would waken alone, without his lover to comfort him.

"Right," said Damien as he leant against the table, "Talk, Solas. What in Thedas is going on? The Dragon-Slayer is a grown man; he can't be your son."

"Do all elves wear the signs of aging so overtly as humans?" he questioned.

"Then how old _are_ you?" Dorian asked.

"Old enough."

There was a pause. Solas looked down at the floor, collecting his thoughts, before he looked up and into the Inquisitor's eye.

"I've watched over him for many years," he said, "His mother and I…well, I needed her, at the time. The affair was short – more a transaction, truly – and he was conceived during it."

"But Fabriel is from the Free Marches." Damien said. Dorian did not like that the Dragon-Slayer's name was being spoken so casually; it felt as if they were treading on forgotten Holy grounds, desecrating shrines and disturbing the dead from their slumber.

"His mother found the arms of another soon after. She came to me when she discovered she was with child. She had no idea whose child it was – but I knew, in my heart. He is mine. Fabriel is my son."

"But he's—" Dorian started, but stopped himself. He could not blurt out in front of the Inquisitor that Fabriel's mother was a mage; and since Solas was as well, would it not stand to reason that their son would have _some_ magical ability? Perhaps not control of it, but evidence it existed? "But you don't know for sure. His father could still be a Free Marcher."

"Now is not the time to debate this," Solas said, "I need to know what happened to him. There was an expedition, yes? To what end?"

"How do you know about that?"

"I was in the area, investigating the cause of the earthquakes myself. I was curious to see if it was magical in nature, and if I could recover what was causing it. Evidently I didn't find the way in, else I'd have likely been killed, but I dreamt of a man fighting shadows in the darkness, screaming for help, and it led me to your research post. The people there recognised me and mentioned that Fabriel had been injured." He folded his arms across his chest, his face almost pleading. "I've explained my reason for being here, Damien. Please – tell me what attacked my son."

The Inquisitor paused for a moment, considering his words. He had no reason not to trust Solas other than his mysterious disappearance – and even then, had he not too wanted some time alone after Corypheus' defeat?

"We found ruins," he said, "Tevinter, buried deep in the cave. We were discussing what to do with them when we heard a noise, and Blackwall saw a light in one of the tunnels. The Dragon-Slayer said it was drakes, and it turned out to be true. They swarmed him during the fight."

"He has no critical injuries?"

"None at all."

Solas' mouth upturned into a relieved smile, "Good." Another beat. "What are the healers' plans for him? Why were you in the tunnel in the first place?"

"That's quite need-to-know information," Dorian said, "Inquisition business, you understand."

The elf's glare was a warning. Dorian was not fazed.

"The Dragon-Slayer's research into some odd happenings with our troops led us there," Damien said. "He's confident there's a draconic presence somewhere in the system, but how far down, he has no idea."

"You did well to listen to him, Inquisitor. Fabriel has a talent for finding dragons." Dorian noticed that Solas pronounced Fabriel's name differently to how he himself pronounced it – whereas he pronounced it 'Fae-Bree-Al', the elf said 'Fa-Bree-Elle'.

 _Perhaps some sort of regional difference?_ He wondered.

"Why didn't you come sooner? It's not exactly been kept quiet that the Dragon-Slayer's here." The mage pointed out. Solas eyed him almost suspiciously.

"No, it's not. I too have heard the rumours surrounding his time in the Inquisition. Quite the stir it's caused." The elf looked out at the window, "I didn't believe I was needed. We've not met, not since he was—" He shook his head with his eyes screwed tight, "I've my own methods for watching over him. But that is evidently no longer enough."

"No longer enough?"

"I don't believe my son would need an expedition team to deal with a High Dragon. I want to be here for this investigation, whatever it is. I want to be here for whatever happens."

"Then you're staying?"

"I am," he said. Dorian moved towards the door, shaking his head, and when he opened it he looked back at his companions and said:

"Fabriel isn't going to like this."

Solas and the Inquisitor watched as the door closed shut behind him. As it did, Solas murmured:

"I know."


	32. Fury

He awoke by degrees.

Dorian was at his side, asleep in a chair, and the first thing he felt was the comforting weight of blankets over him, their warmth welcoming him to the land of the living. He noticed he was thirsty, but not terribly so, and slowly, slowly the pain of his wounds returned, a dull ache that radiated from his stomach and crawled across his entire body. It was bearable. As he laid eyes on Dorian, he hauled himself on to his side and admired him.

The mage had not meant to fall asleep. His head was bent until his chin touched his chest, and every now and then Fabriel heard his little snore, listened as he murmured his half of a nonsensical conversation. The rider felt himself smiling. The morning sun peaked through his window and he could hear the thud of healers' footsteps outside, preparing to care for their charges. Despite the pain, he was at peace.

"Dorian," he soon murmured, reaching out to squeeze his hand, "Dorian?"

The mage's head rose and his eyes opened, but were glazed with the dregs of sleep. He blinked once, twice, and then realised that his hand was being held, and noticed for the first time that his lover had awoken.

"Fabriel," he breathed, using both hands to clasp his own, "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"I'm alright. There's some pain, but not much. I had the strangest dreams."

"Oh?"

"I dreamt I was in a forest, and I saw a wolf prowling in the bushes, watching me. Its eyes were red like—like rubies." The rider shook his head as though to rid himself of the thought. He reached up to cup Dorian's face, brushing his thumb over his cheek with a soft smile and half-lidded eyes, _"_ But it was just a dream. I'm glad to be back here, with you. _**I missed you.**_ _"_

" _ **I missed you too.**_ _"_ He clutched his wrist, _"_ _ **Fabriel, there's…something you need to know.**_ _"_

"Is it about the dragon?" he asked. He was suddenly alert, as if he had not just spent two days unconscious.

"No, it's…" he paused, and then shook his head and sighed. "Just promise me you won't overexert yourself."

* * *

Fabriel kicked the door to the war room open, his eyes murderous as he stalked inside and scanned the startled people around him. The Inquisitor, his advisors, and Solas were at the table; and though none of them had seen it before, they all knew what that look meant. Dorian hurried in behind him, watching for any sort of indication that he was in pain.

"You." He growled when he laid eyes on the elf.

"Ah," Solas replied, and his voice did not give much away, "You're awake. Excellent."

"How _dare_ you make such an outrageous claim," he shouted, "How dare you call yourself my father. My father is dead. He's two decades gone of this world. My blood is Free Marcher."

"You were told, then. This is…not how I wanted to do this." He set down the book he had been holding and stepped out from the table. He had always marvelled how much Fabriel looked like his mother; he had her face shape and fine hair, and even the manner in which he spoke reminded him of her.

"Do what? This ridiculous lie? Will you lay claim to my brother while you're at it? While he rots on the stones?!"

"Brother?" blurted Dorian and Leliana, though no one paid them much mind. Solas' eyes became hardened and defensive, and when he moved his shoulders were tense, every action deliberate and slow.

"I am your father," he said at length, "I've watched over you for three decades. I held you when you were but a suckling babe without a single idea of what you would become. I _named_ you."

"My mother named me!" he replied, "And I've no idea how you discovered it, but I'll scour this earth until I find out. This is some delusion you've created, or a vicious lie to infiltrate our mission. I won't stand for it. My mother loved my father. She would not have lied to him. To me."

"Fabriel—"

"Do _not_ speak that name."

"Your mother and I weren't in love, true, but love isn't needed. You were unexpected, but special – to me and to the world. I did what I could to ensure you were safe, even after she died. Ir abelas."

Those words – he remembered them, somewhere deep and dark inside his memories, hidden away behind painful memories he had strived to forget. They seemed to come on a dream, a faint, fleeting image he could not grasp hold of before it had vanished out of his mind entirely. It unsettled him, but for what reason he had no idea. Fabriel closed the distance between them, standing as though he meant to lunge at any moment, and Solas held his ground.

"Drop this lie," he warned.

"It is the truth. And oftentimes, there is a reason the truth is hidden. This day was coming, Fabriel – it always was."

The Dragon-Slayer reached for his blade and was a moment away from unsheathing it when Damien called out, "Stop!" The shout stayed in the air long after its noise had died away. There was a heavy, pregnant silence, with the rider and Solas caught in their own fight for dominance, before Fabriel relented and let the dagger slide back into place.

"That's enough," the Inquisitor said. "This isn't ideal. I know that. But there are other ways to work things out than this."

"There's nothing to work out." Fabriel replied, then lowered his voice to a low rumble, "I am not your son. I am no mage."

"That is a matter of debate," he murmured. He had matched Fabriel's tone, but his voice was so quiet and low that no one except the rider could hear him. The Dragon-Slayer's eyebrows rose and, after a beat, he shook his head and turned towards the door.

"Enough of this." he said. He opened the door and slipped through it. Dorian looked at the Inquisitor, his expression one of concern, and quickly followed. As he left the room and hurried after his lover, Leliana, Josephine and Cullen tried to piece together what had just happened.

"Ir abelas, ma vhenan," Solas said as he watched the door close on the image of his son, "Ir abelas."


	33. The Dreamers

"This is ridiculous," Fabriel said as he paced the library, "The audacity to stand there and lie to me, directly to my face. It's just—argh, there are no words."

"You came up with some rather colourful ones earlier," Dorian pointed out. The rider would have laughed, but he was in no mood to. The situation had thrown him through a loop.

"How is the Inquisitor even entertaining this idea? My father was, he was…" he stuttered, and then paused. There was a moment in which he bent his head to the floor, quiet and sullen, apparently reminiscing. "He wasn't perfect, but he was mine."

Dorian, who watched his lover from the comfort of his chair, sat forward with his hands clasped together, intending to cut in and point out that even if not a lie, he was free to choose who he considered his father. But Fabriel, cast in the winter sunlight that filtered in through the window, shook his head and rested his shoulder against the wall.

"Mother always told me I was my father's son," he said, "Intelligent, headstrong, talented. But my father was never intelligent. He once burned down a barn he was building after he lit a fire inside to keep warm. We were both stubborn, and we were both talented in our own ways. But I keep wondering if she meant someone else. If she meant him."

Fabriel closed his eyes against the tears that threatened them.

"He knew my name, Dorian. How could he have known that, if there's no truth in what he's saying?"

Dorian stood and went to him. He wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him close, and despite the intensity of his sadness and fury he was calmed by his lover's touch.

"This is a difficult situation," he said, "and you're still recovering. There are questions to be asked, but not right now. It can wait."

"Can it? To discover why he would tell so vicious a lie?"

"Yes, it can. You need to rest."

Dorian's arms tightened around the rider and he rested his chin on his shoulder, his expression soft and affectionate. The Dragon-Slayer turned his head from him.

"I understood him." He said. The mage's eyebrows quirked. "Ir abelas. It means 'I'm sorry'. I don't know how I know that, but when he said it I recognised it, as if I'd heard it before. But I can't remember where I might have picked it up."

"The Dalish?" he ventured. Fabriel shook his head.

"I very rarely come across Dalish," he replied, "and when I do, they normally just call me a shem and use the trade tongue. None of them have ever said ir abelas to me. This has just been a misadventure of unanswerable questions."

Dorian nodded and traced a finger on the back of Fabriel's hand. "Perhaps we should focus ourselves on something else for a while. You must be in pain. Let's find you some real food and head back to the tower."

His lover paused. Hunger gnawed at his stomach suddenly, as if it had been waiting for a command.

"Are you not going to ask about my brother?" he asked. He dreaded the question – Goimar was a painful topic, and he was uncertain if he could bring himself to discuss it. But, thankfully, Dorian shook his head.

"There will be time enough later," he told him, "For now, I just want you fed."

Fabriel looked grateful as he replied, "Alright. Let's go."

* * *

The night swept in to silence.

Solas had relocated to the rotunda, and as he sat at his desk he found himself observing his frescos, the tale of the Inquisitor's rise to power. He wondered if Fabriel had ever admired them, or if he had felt some sort of connection with the elven style at all. Had he looked at them once, on a long night of study, and wondered who had painted them? Had he felt, deep down in his soul, some familiarity with them?

The door to the rotunda opened. Solas looked up to see the Inquisitor come in and walk towards him. The elf offered him a weary smile as he approached.

"Solas," Damien said, "How are you?"

"Better, now. Today was difficult. I'm hopeful that tomorrow will see tempers settled."

"I'm sure the Dragon-Slayer just needs time. It's a lot to take in."

"He reminds me so much of his mother at times. A cool temper until he believes someone is lying to him." He chuckled softly, "If only the truth were easier for him to see."

"Is there a chance it's not the truth?" Damien asked. It earned him a hard stare from his friend. "He seems to believe a Free Marcher was his father. If his mother was with both of you in a short amount of time, couldn't it be possible?"

"It's…" he started, then paused. The elf looked up into the rookery above them, noting the shadows of passing people, and lowered his voice. "Inquisitor, would you mind if we talked about this elsewhere?"

Damien's eyebrow rose.

"I fear Fabriel will not be too pleased with me if I discussed this here."

The Inquisitor hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. Solas went towards the door, gesturing him to follow, and together the pair left the rotunda – and the watchful eyes of the ravens above.

* * *

Solas led him to his own room, where he stood on the balcony and looked out at the dark mountains around them. Damien joined him after lighting a candle on his desk and setting it out on the banister. There was a long while of silence in which his friend seemed more interested in the scenery outside than the Inquisitor, or even the story he was about to share.

"What is it, Solas?" he asked after a time. The elf turned his head towards him and sighed.

"I'm uncertain how to tell you this," he admitted. "There were times when even I doubted it was true. But Fabriel is special."

"We all think our children are special," he pointed out.

"Not just to me. His entire existence is…" he paused again. "How much do you know of Fabriel's mother?"

"He hasn't told us anything about her. Well, not that I know of, anyway."

"She was a mage. A powerful spirit medium with a penchant for necromancy. We met by chance, while we were dreaming. She had an impressive control of her magic and used it to search deep in the Fade, where she could find spirits who held ancient secrets."

"She was a dreamer?"

"Yes, to some extent. She couldn't shape the Fade, however, and often she struggled to navigate the twisting roads and lost her way. That was how she came to me. It was refreshing to meet someone whose interest in spirits was academic, not self-serving."

He looked out at the mountains before he continued. He seemed for a moment to be lost in them, those enormous peaks painted black against the night sky.

"We were intimate once. I told her no more, and she stopped visiting me for a time. By the time she returned she had taken a new lover, the Free Marcher, and told me that she was pregnant."

"Then you can't be his father," Damien pointed out. "If it all happened in the Fade, then—"

"I am." He interrupted. "I know how it sounds, Inquisitor."

"It sounds impossible."

"Have you not met your share of the impossible? A man who faced a magister of old, saw the secrets of the ancient elves, physically entered the Fade himself?"

Damien shrugged, "Point taken. It just sounds so insane. Fabriel was conceived in the Fade?"

"He was, as we slept. I'm not certain of the magic involved in it. I'm not even certain if there _was_ magic involved. Perhaps this is simply a possibility there that no one else has stumbled across."

"You said his mother was a mage. If you were his father, wouldn't Fabriel be a mage as well?"

"The thought has crossed my mind. But he shows—" He stopped. The elf looked to his left, apparently at war with himself. Damien prompted him with a gentle:

"He shows…?"

"Forgive me," he said as he turned, "I must know that this part in particular won't be told to anyone else – not yet, at least. I trust you, Inquisitor – your actions during the Breach proved you deserve it – but I need to discuss this with Fabriel first, when I have the chance."

He hesitated. "That's a very tall order, Solas. I want my advisors aware of who we have in our ranks, if they might be dangerous."

"I assure you, Fabriel isn't any more dangerous than your Inner Circle."

Damien stared at him for a moment, observing him for any sign of dishonesty.

"Alright," he said, "If you're certain it won't pose a problem, I can keep the information to myself for now. But the moment it does, my advisors _will_ know about it. That's all I can promise."

"A fair deal." Solas replied.

He approached the banister again, resting his hand on it as he looked down at the rocks below.

"Fabriel is aware of his dreams." He said. "He's able to navigate them as well as any mage could. He has a unique connection to the Fade that I've never seen before. His mother brought him to me soon after he was born. I was shocked, to say the least. Babies shouldn't dream. But she handed him over to me, and I knew in that moment – I knew I was holding a special child."

Damien did not speak, but Solas paused as though he expected to be interrupted. The elf seemed uncertain of himself as he carried on.

"I gave him his name, and watched over him when he slept. It wasn't long before he started adventuring through the Fade himself, and I acted as his guide so he wouldn't fall victim to demons. He happily talked to spirits and came with me to see some of my oldest friends. He called me 'the Shepherd'. 'Shepherd', he'd say, 'Why is that rock floating up there? It should be on the floor. The rocks at home are always on the floor'."

"But he doesn't remember you."

"No. I believe he thought I was a spirit, or just a friendly apparition of his own imagination. He stopped visiting me a few days before his seventh birthday. I'm…not sure why." Solas closed his eyes. "But I continued to watch him from afar. I guided him in more subtle ways, even as tragedy befell him. When he was named the Vessel, I saw him less and less. I was lucky to even catch a glimpse of him in the distance sometimes."

"I'm sorry," said Damien. "That must have been difficult for you."

Solas bent his head forward, "It was." A pause. "But I believe he has a destiny, and I need to be here to see it realised."

"A bigger destiny than being the Vessel?"

The elf paused and looked at him. Damien could not read his expression.

"I apologise, Inquisitor. I've taken enough of your time. You've much more important things to do than listen to my lamentations." He started towards the door, turning until he was walking backwards to say, "Thank you, for trusting me."

The Inquisitor could only watch as his friend slipped down the stairs and out of the room.


	34. These Parts of You

He dreamt that night.

Fabriel was in an odd place; a place where the rocks throbbed with energy and the ground was irregular, and playful wisps of creatures passed across his vision as though curious about him. He could see in the distance enormous mountains that floated in the air, the occasional monolith that contorted and snapped at odd angles, and realised that he stood upon a platform made of stone and embedded in a tall half-destroyed structure, attached to its own flight of uneven stairs. The entire place unsettled him. It felt familiar, and yet alien at the same time.

He heard footsteps in front of him. The rider reached down for his daggers and found his holster had vanished. As he listened to the creature come closer he steeled himself, prepared to fight for his life with little more than his bare hands.

But when Solas crested the stairs, he felt himself deflate.

"Fabriel," said the elf as he neared. He had a staff in hand and wore furred armour, and he seemed pleased to see him – his smile was warm and genuine. "I hoped I would find you here."

"Must I be harassed in every corner? Can I not even dream in peace?" The rider asked. He did not speak to Solas but more to the air around him, as if he was appealing to some higher power.

"I understand this might be—"

"Enough," he replied, dismissively waving his hand, "Whatever spirit you are, leave me."

"I am no spirit, ma vhenan."

"Lies."

"No, Fabriel," Solas said, "I speak only the truth. We simply haven't walked together for a long time."

"I have _never_ walked with you."

"You do not remember. Come. Follow me."

"I won't follow a man I don't trust."

"If you believe this isn't real, then it shouldn't matter," the elf pointed out, his brow furrowed, "You have nothing to lose from trusting me, at least for the moment. Come. I want to show you something."

Fabriel was hesitant, but, left with the option of remaining alone or joining him, decided to follow.

* * *

Solas had led him to a small alcove, where the energy thrummed under his feet and the mountains seemed even more distant, despite having walked towards them. It was almost familiar – a place he had been before, no doubt, but the image in his mind was far off, as though part of a dream.

"Do you remember this place?" Solas asked as he moved. The elf seemed happy to have him at his side.

"No," he replied. It was not quite the truth, but it was close.

"We used to come here to see my friend," he said, "You liked to climb the rocks and conjure the most fantastical feasts. She was quite fond of you."

The rider had a sudden taste of honeycomb in his mouth. "Someone lived here?"

"Yes. She still does. Wait a moment and she will come."

Fabriel used the time to study the area. It appeared to be more static than the rest of their surroundings, though there were some rocks that shifted places and more than once an object appeared and disappeared at random. Solas watched him as he sat waiting on a ledge, a small smile on his face.

After a time, the alcove's energy increased and thrummed even harder than it had before. A shimmering pool of light rose up from the green veins that ran along the ground, and out of the mist formed a spirit with the shape of a woman, her eyes an unnatural glow in her otherwise ever-shifting silhouette.

Fabriel was cautious and kept his distance, but Solas stood up immediately and greeted her, "Aneth ara."

"Atish'an," she said in response. Her lips moved, but the rider felt as though her speech formed around him, drawn from the very energy of the Fade. "Ghilana da'len?"

He replied in elvish, and then turned and noted his son with a smile. Fabriel frowned; he recalled bits and pieces, but not much, and did not like the idea of a conversation he could not understand.

"I apologise, vhenan," Solas said, "I was just telling my friend that you aren't as little as she might remember."

"This is your friend? A spirit?"

"She was your friend too, when you were a boy." He waved his hand beside him. "Come. She isn't dangerous, much as the Chantry might tell you otherwise. She's a spirit of Wisdom."

In normal circumstances, he would have refused. But there was a strange feeling that urged his feet forward – a sense of safety, as if the creature in front of him had been kind to him before. She did not flinch at his approach, which was slow and cautious, and welcomed him with, "Aneth ara, da'len."

"I fear Fabriel's forgotten much of the elvish I taught him," Solas told her.

"I…remember you." Fabriel ventured, "Gh…Ghil-Dirthalen."

Solas smiled, "Ah, so parts are coming back to you. Excellent."

"I have no idea," he said, "I'm not even sure this is real. A spirit? An elf who claims to be my father? Perhaps I'm simply losing my mind."

"Weaker men would, after all you've been forced to suffer. But you aren't a weak man."

"There's much for you to learn, da'len, and re-learn." The spirit told him.

"You said I came here as a boy," he said to Solas, "That I came here with you. Why don't I remember it?"

"That was a long time ago, vhenan. You stopped visiting me when you were still a child."

Fabriel felt a small pang in his heart – a sudden loneliness that seemed to deaden his limbs. It was as if he had lost a friend, but it was a memory, dulled by time. Solas nodded at the spirit.

"Thank you," he said, "Ma melava halani. Fabriel, there's one more thing I want you to see."

The elf started off in another direction, but before he followed the Dragon-Slayer looked at the spirit and performed a respectful bow.

"Dareth shiral," he said, and the words came to him almost as an afterthought. The wise creature smiled at him.

"Malas amelin ne halam, da'len," she replied. Fabriel's head recoiled slightly, and he hurried off to join Solas.

* * *

"This is a very special place," Solas said to him as the pair came to a wide clearing, surrounded on either side by blackened trees with twisted trunks. There were spirits hidden among them that weaved in and out of the branches, a wild array of colours that seemed just out of Fabriel's reach.

"Why?" he asked as he watched the display.

"This was where your mother first introduced us," he replied. "It looks different now. The nature of the Fade. But she came here with you in her arms – this little bundle of dark hair and pink skin, so fragile, so delicate. I was instantly afraid for you."

"My mother was there. I was safe."

"Yes, Audia was fiercely protective of you," he acknowledged, "and you didn't even know where you were. But I did. And I understood the full implications of your being here."

"I don't understand."

"This is the Fade. There are those who are able to wander it freely, explore in their dreams to its furthest stretches – provided they're knowledgeable enough."

" _ **Somniari**_ ," said Fabriel.

"Yes," Solas replied, "A rare skill possessed by only a handful of mages. It's an inborn talent, and one that can take decades to master."

Solas looked at the spirits in the trees, watching them for a moment, before he returned his attention to Fabriel.

"When your mother brought you here, I realised then that you were a dreamer."

"I'm not a mage." The rider said.

"You possess none of the outward appearances of one," he agreed, "and you seem unable to use magic in the waking world. But, if you weren't, we wouldn't be having this conversation – here, of all places."

"If I were a dreamer, I'd have to be a mage. That's a rule, no?"

"For most, yes. But you are different, Fabriel. I believe it's a result of your conception."

"I really don't want to hear about this," he said.

"It's important that you understand how this could be possible, and what it might mean," Solas said, "though I'll omit the details. Your mother and I met – and conceived you – in our dreams."

"That's…impossible." He shook his head. "Insane."

"It's perhaps the only time a child has been born in such circumstances. It could explain your connection to the Fade, how you could come here even as a baby. As a child you showed such a natural talent in shaping it, it was almost enviable."

He pointed his staff at the spirits surrounding them.

"Before, these were all potential friends," he said, "You had no fear of them, seemed to possess an inherent understanding of their nature. But you were too trusting, and so I protected you from those who would bring you harm. I feared that, one day, you would wander too far from me and become possessed, or your magic would develop and you would be sent to a Circle. Neither happened."

"I still don't understand what this all means," he pointed out. Solas paused, and then turned to his son and dared to rest a hand on his shoulder.

"It means that there's a destiny waiting for you, at my side," he said, "but it's not time yet. I'll be watching after you, vhenan. Until then, you need to _wake up_."

* * *

Fabriel awoke with a start in his own bed, with Dorian resting peacefully beside him. He roused him when he sat bolt upright, fighting for breath.

"Fabriel?!" His voice sounded almost frantic in the darkness, "What's wrong? _**Amatus, are you alright?**_ _"_

"I…I…" he fought to regain control. He focused on his breathing, and after a few long beats he felt the panic subside, a gentle ebb that pushed the sudden weight from his chest. "I'm fine, _**amatus.**_ Just a nightmare."

Dorian reached out and wrapped his arm around his lover's waist. "Do you want to talk about it?" His face was etched with moonlight, and when he saw him Fabriel's muscles eased, as if he meant to melt into the mage's side.

"No, it's alright. I just need some time to calm down."

"Shall I fetch us a drink?"

"I…" he shook his head and laughed. "You know just what I need, _**amatus**_."


	35. Clandestine

Fabriel felt his injuries with every move he made, but he endured. He hid his little winces, made no mention of the dull ache that crept along his limbs, and trained even though the weather was wet and cold. Dorian was not convinced. He forced him to rest – even if he had to withstand his lover's murmured complaints.

"I've made contact about the ruins," he said as he approached, burdened with an armful of notes. "There's no mention of them in the Circles, not even in the Imperium."

"Hm. Secret research?"

"Possibly. We'll need to have a closer look."

"The Inquisitor will dispatch a team if we asked. I'll need to join them."

"Not in your condition," Dorian told him, "I'll go, if necessary."

"That's—"

"I'm more familiar with the Imperium than you are, Fabriel. If one of us has to help examine the ruins, it's me."

"And the drakes? How will you protect yourself?"

"How will you?" he countered.

"These injuries don't cripple me."

"No, but if you continue to push yourself they might. The healers can deal with your stubborn ass while I'm gone. It'll give me a rest." Dorian's tone had turned playful, and the rider felt his annoyance fade. He could not maintain it in the face of his lover's teasing. He dropped his volume to mutter:

" _ **Festis bei umo canavarum, Dorian.**_ _"_

* * *

The pair soon retired to the Rest and were met by the Iron Bull and Blackwall. Cole joined them, and though he was cautious of it the spirit soon took the drinks Fabriel offered him and had a few experimental sips. There were soldiers, couriers, spies, and Maryden played a familiar song on the lute that the rider despised.

" _Lie still, peace be, rest easy my child/ There's yet work in the field to do/ Blades all, deed is done, and another lies dead/ How must this wear on you/ To hold the sword that strikes it down/ And see reflected your face/ These emerald waters, please offer you peace/ For no one is offering Faith/ These people all know you, they call you Slayer/ Yet does a Slayer pray?"_

"So, what's the deal with the cave? We're going back, right?" Bull said.

"The moment the healers leave me be," the rider replied.

"Then we'll be here until the new season," Blackwall swigged his stein. "Do we have any leads on these ruins?"

"We're chasing a few," Dorian informed as he swirled his own glass, "There's not much, admittedly. It's all very furtive."

"That sounds like the 'vints."

"Cole, you mentioned something interesting while we were in there," the Dragon-Slayer pointed out, "'Can't stop the shouting in my fingertips'. What did you mean by it?"

"It was very blurry," he said at length, "Oil on ice, fire in the glass, too bright to see but so beautiful to mould."

"I…don't understand."

"Par for the course, Slayer," Blackwall cut in. "If I've learnt anything, though, when he starts doing that, it means something's not right."

"If the 'vints are involved, it's always some kind of crazy magic. Blood or something else."

"It all depends on the age of the lair," Fabriel said. The others looked at him quizzically, and he continued, "If the lair is old and not the dragon, it could be that another dragon lived there before. I'd wager that the Tevinters were researching it, if that's the case."

"That's not a bad thought. Ancient Tevinters did have quite the penchant for them, after all."

"Great scales and long claws, so simple, so clever; power is only as strong as it can bend."

"He's doing it again." Blackwall noted, and then passed his stein towards him. "Here, Cole. Don't drink it too fast."

The spirit took it from him. He smelt it, and after the initial sourness passed he thought it smelt like berries. After a few moments, he started to drink. Fabriel watched him out of the corner of his eye – a fact he was aware of, and he thought he shined more brightly, as if he had found a piece of himself that had been lost. But it made him uneasy. He could feel it in waves; a man lost in a new world, uncertain of where he stood, what _he_ even was.

 _Prophet's laurel,_ he thought, _But how to slip it into his tower?_

"There's no reason for us not to proceed further into the system," said the rider once Cole had settled down. "The researchers have had no trouble, which could mean that the drakes have retreated into the lair. It will mean a harder fight at the end, but relatively safe passage before that. Provided the rock doesn't give way."

"Damien won't allow it until the healers have told him you're recovered, nor will I," Dorian reminded him. "Besides, there's no point in rushing in there blind."

"Dorian's right, Slayer. We're sooner to find an early grave than we are dragons if we don't at least take precautions."

"I'm with the Slayer on this. Better to go in, worry about the ruins _after_ we've killed the queen."

"Of course you are, Bull."

"I'm a simple man," he said, "Give me an axe, a target, and a lot of room to move. That's all I need for a good day."

"Then let's drink to the Slayer's swift recovery," Blackwall said, and all five did.


	36. Path

"I dream of places shifting. Forever without solid ground under my feet, the skies a different colour every second, the oceans calm and then violent. Is that the Fade?"

"It's possible," said Solas, "It all depends. Do you meet with spirits?"

"I meet with…strange people. People who never seem to be whole."

"That is fascinating. Perhaps your mind expects people, and the spirits adapt. Have you had many conversations with them?"

"Yes." Fabriel reached over for his tea. He noticed the elf did not pour himself a cup, and wondered if he shared Dorian's allergy to stripweed. The pair sat in a sheltered part of the garden, over an unfinished game of chess that Solas was clearly winning. The weather was still foul – he could feel the frost in his lungs, needling at his wounds, but he needed to understand what the elf had shown him, if it was even possible for him to manipulate the Fade. For the most part, his companion seemed unaffected by the cold. He was more interested in his son, his eyes concentrated on him and his expression wise and light, even comforting.

"What do they say?"

"It depends on the person. Some say there's a wolf in my soul, others say I've lost my colours. I don't understand it. I thought it all nonsense. But I _remembered_ that elvish. Does that not mean something?"

Solas tented his fingers and leaned back in his seat. "It does. It's my hope that you will come to remember more, in time – if not everything, then enough to further develop your talent."

"I'm not certain I want to," he said.

"It's too rare a gift to waste, vhenan, especially in your circumstances."

Fabriel made his move on the board.

"The Vessel should be committed to the people," he said.

"Do they deserve it?" Solas countered. "These are the same people who deny you your right to live and love freely. They command your time, your attention, require your complete devotion. In their eyes, how are you any different from a slave?"

"Those who I protect offer me food, water, shelter from the elements. I am their last line of defence against the world's horrors. They suffer just as I do."

"No, vhenan, they do not. They sleep in their beds with their lovers, are free to rear and raise children, cattle, build lives independent of the Chantry. But you? You are bound to that creed, no matter your own desires."

Solas played his move. He was closing in on Fabriel's king, and the rider scrutinised the board in an attempt to save himself.

"I am no more bound than the Vessels before me," he said. "Rosaline retired from service and died a natural death."

"And Athrahel, the only other of the elf-blood, was killed by those he was sworn to protect."

Fabriel moved his queen's position. "This is a pointless tangent, Solas."

"Because it discomforts you?"

"No," he replied, "because it changes nothing."

"I see." He moved a templar. "I wonder, then, what will become of you and Dorian. He is Tevinter, and already there rises hysteria about your relationship."

"I will endure it."

"Ah, as love does in the face of adversity."

Fabriel moved forward his queen. Solas studied the board, his brow furrowed and his lips thinned.

"Did your mother not teach you chess?" he asked as he put forward a pawn.

"I was a child," he moved his queen, "I didn't want to sit for hours and learn when I could be playing outside. I spent an entire month determined to chase the chickens from their coops. By the time it was reasonable for me to try and learn again, Father had already started to teach me carpentry."

"Ah, yes, Lars," said Solas, moving the pawn, "I never did like the last name he gave you. Glin." He moved his tongue as though he had something in his teeth, the word ever-so-slightly stretched as he said it. "You used to say it all the time. 'I'm Fabriel Glin. Glin, Glin, Glin.' As if you were trying to convince yourself."

Fabriel moved his queen. "It seems I had reason to."

"Yes. You were always a precocious child." He moved his templar. "Check."

Fabriel took the templar with his queen.

"You said I have a destiny," he told him, "What is it you believe I should be, if not the Vessel?"

"That shall come in time. There's much for you to learn before we can even discuss it." He moved his mage. "Check."

"It matters little, I suppose. Fate put me on this path. This is what I committed myself to."

"No, vhenan. Other people committed you to it when you were no more than a child. The destiny you have is far more than their minds can even contemplate – even if we must take regrettable measures to reach it."

"Regrettable measures?" he questioned. Solas' eyes were steady, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

"Yes," he replied, "It will become clearer in time, the more you understand."

"Am I to have no choice in my future? Condemn the Mothers as much as you like, Solas, but do you not also want to force me to accept a path I've not chosen?"

"Point taken." He said. "I will not force you. I believe that it will become your natural choice, and all the sacrifices made towards it will be informed decisions rather than ones thrust upon you, as they are now."

"If I were to refuse?"

Solas smiled. "We shall cross that bridge once we come to it." He gestured to the board. "Do you have another move to play, or do you concede defeat?"

The rider studied the board. He could see no move that would free his king. He made certain to calculate all possible avenues of escape, but as he went through each one he realised it was pointless; he would just put himself in another check.

"Well done, Solas," he said as he reclined into his seat. "I should have taken my lessons more seriously."

"No matter. We've time enough for me to teach you."

"I would like that. With Dorian at the cave I need to find distractions."

"You care for him. It's admirable. But I've seen Dorian's magical skill. He can defend himself, if he needs to." Solas paused and looked out at the garden for a moment. "At any rate, we should return to the fortress. This cold cannot be good for your wounds."

The elf stood, folding his hands together as though he was nervous of his next question.

"If you find yourself at a loose end, would you care to have dinner with me tonight?" he asked. "It's been a long time since we dined together. I would love to hear more about your travels."

"I…would like that, Solas." He replied. "I'm teaching Sera how to protect herself against drakes this afternoon. I'll come to the rotunda afterwards."

"Be cautious of Sera, vhenan. She will turn those tricks against you, and you'll soon find your bed full of lizards."

"Lizards?"

"A story for another time," he chuckled, "Come, let's not freeze any longer."

Fabriel set the pieces quickly into place before he stood and followed Solas.


	37. To Love and the Rest

Dorian's endeavour to research the ruins had borne no fruit. There was little information on them, and Leliana had not yet found a decent source to acquire more material. He sent letters to his lover from the outpost; the couriers often delivered three or four between them a day, and Fabriel felt himself grow more and more restless the longer the mage was apart from him. He started to send little packages of sweets at sunrise as a consolation for the miserable cold, and to let him know that he was thinking of him.

The Inquisitor denied his appeals to be sent ahead. He cited health reasons, and that so far none of the researchers had come across trouble. "The soldiers are enough," he told him, but it did not comfort him. It had been almost two weeks since Dorian had left Skyhold, and he would not sleep peacefully until he had returned. His disturbed rest concerned Solas as it meant both that his injuries healed more slowly, and that he could not exercise nor develop his newfound talent. Instead, he trained the soldiers in techniques to repel drake attacks. He was a strict leader, commanding footwork, timing, posture – and the men listened, even amidst their exhaustion.

He was in the courtyard that evening. The low-lying winter sun had all but set and the sky was coloured a beautiful amber-red, but despite the waning light soldiers trained near the gates, practicing the few techniques that he had shown them. The Dragon-Slayer walked between them, barking out instructions, criticisms, praise. His words spurred their struggle on.

"Fabriel," said Solas as he approached from the stairs, "This must end. You need to rest."

"I am resting," he replied.

" _This_ is not resting. This is preparation for war."

"Now, now, apostate; our dear Dragon-Slayer is just prepping the men for the worst. It's a necessary evil."

Vivienne had observed the session that day, and found herself quite impressed with the traveller's attention to detail, his command of the soldiers in so short a space of time. He had an advantage, of course – as the Vessel, people were bound to hear him – but to do as he ordered was a different matter. When she had seen Solas approach she could not resist but to include herself in the conversation.

"This doesn't concern you, Enchanter." The elf rebuked her, and he did so in a manner that was meant to shut her out from further comment. But of course, Vivienne had no intention of submitting.

"If the Vessel's theory is proven true and we _are_ dealing with a dragon so ancient as to be forgotten entirely, we'll need our soldiers on top form."

"Then send for Cullen. These are his men."

"The Dragon-Slayer is a part of the Inquisition now. They are our men. If he has the skills needed to help them survive, it is his burden to teach them. He understands the meaning of duty."

Solas turned towards her, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes stern, but before he could reply Fabriel quickly waved for silence.

"Enough!" he declared. "No one needs to hear two seasoned war veterans bickering like children."

"It's not bickering, my dear, merely a disagreement. That tends to happen when more than one person is included in discussion."

"I do not recall including you, Enchanter," Solas noted. The Dragon-Slayer let out an exasperated growl and made as though to return to his duties. "Fabriel, this cannot continue. You must accept your injuries and allow yourself time to heal."

"I'll rest after Dorian's come home." He replied, and then vanished into the mass of sparring soldiers. Solas and Vivienne watched them for a moment more, the elf unsatisfied and the enchanter enlightened.

"Ah," she said at length, "So it's not duty that drives our dear Vessel, but love."

"Do you not ever tire of your own voice?"

"No, I find it quite delightful. This does, however, pose a problem. Dorian could be needed in that system for weeks more, and if his paramour is finding it difficult in his absence—"

"I've no desire to discuss this with you."

Solas started towards the stairs, but Vivienne followed. She continued as they went, much to the elf's annoyance.

"Desires mean little," she said, "We must have a plan in place if the Vessel continues to push himself past his limits. The results could be a great deal more than undesirable."

"Coming from a woman who just argued that he _should_ be pushing himself," Solas pointed out.

"Merely testing his loyalties, my dear. You've seen the Game, understand, at least to some extent, its moves. One must play the devil's advocate at times to see underneath the disguises we don."

The pair started up the final set of stairs towards the main fortress, and Vivienne hurried her pace to reach Solas' side. Once she had, she caught his arm to halt him.

"Solas, you must know that your recent confession has made its way through the Inner Circle. If people were to discover that the Dragon-Slayer is potentially elf-blooded, he stands to lose much of the respect he's cultivated."

"Of course," he said, "because humans can never see past one's heritage. Fabriel has burdened himself for two decades with protecting the innocent, losing much of his own life to ensure the lives of others. But no, it's not his actions that define him, but his blood."

"I cannot deny that that will be true for the majority. I can only assure you that that's not the opinion of all – it's certainly not mine. The Vessel has proven himself countless times and for that he has my admiration."

"Why are you telling me this, Vivienne?"

"Because, darling, the Dragon-Slayer is walking a fine line already by not denying his relationship with Dorian. If word were to somehow get out about his uncertain parentage, it could have disastrous effects – more so if he were unable to aid in the battle against whatever lies beneath our feet."

"The Inner Circle would not spread that information."

"Not intentionally, no. But do you trust all in the Circle not to blurt it out at some point in conversation? Sera in a drunken haze of lunacy, or Cole in one of his ramblings?"

"I…suppose not, no."

"Then we must do what we can to mitigate those effects."

"I understand. But you yourself saw how stubborn he is. He won't listen to reason."

"Then we must do what we have to in order for him to rest."

Solas' eyes narrowed and his brow lowered, distrustful of her tone. "What are you suggesting?"

"I would normally say that we should write to Dorian and unleash him on his paramour, but in these circumstances that's not an option – in a place as delicate as the ruins, unnecessary concern should be avoided. I can have a powerful sleeping draught prepared by tomorrow evening. It's guaranteed to work, but we will have to trick the Dragon-Slayer into drinking it."

"That's your solution? To drug him?"

"We can debate the ethics at a later date – now is the time for action. We cannot allow for him to continue the path he's on. He will suffer for it."

"Careful, Enchanter. You almost sound as if you care about him more than just his use as a potential weapon."

She smiled softly, "I assure you, this is a decision based purely on pragmatism."

Solas looked at his son in the courtyard below. Fabriel was once more calling out orders, and like spirits the soldiers moulded to his will, changing their direction, flow, and styles as and when he commanded it. It was as seamless as a well-practiced dance. He watched as their heads weaved to the beat of the fight. But the rider seemed tired; there were dark crescent moons under his eyes, powdered with a hue of purple, and every now and then his hand clutched as his stomach and he showed an imperceptible wince.

"Very well." He said. "I admit that not much else can be done. Fabriel is refusing reason and we must take matters into our own hands."

"I'll begin the draught right away. We must ensure he drinks it at full potency."

* * *

The Dragon-Slayer felt no lonelier than he did when he returned to an empty tower, and so he spent all of his free time in either the Rest or the rotunda. He was often without company, but the presence of the people around him and the hum of conversation sometimes distracted him from his thoughts.

He had dismissed the soldiers and returned to the rotunda that night, where he intended to read a letter sent by Dorian and comb through his research of the mountains. But when he entered into that low-lit hall, he found Solas waiting from him.

"Fabriel," he said, and seemed delighted to see him, "I was about to retire, but would you like some tea?"

"Isn't it unwise to drink tea before bed?" he asked as he approached.

"I won't pour myself some. I detest the stuff. I have some juice I prefer. Come, sit with me."

The rider sat in the chair opposite him, admiring the frescos that surrounded them as Solas went about preparing his drink. While he was preoccupied with them, the elf shielded one of the cups from his sight and emptied a small purple vial into the hot water. It glowed a deep magenta for a moment, then faded. He felt a little stab of guilt while he quickly slipped the vial into his pocket.

"I trust the training is going well?" he asked as he passed him his tea. The Dragon-Slayer's nose wrinkled.

"Their form leaves a lot to be desired," he said, taking the cup, "but they show promise. Drakes will have a difficult time overcoming them."

"At least there are some small consolations."

"Not yet. They will find it difficult, but not impossible. More training is needed. I would rather work them until their feet bleed than be lax and send them to their deaths."

"A wise decision, though I imagine some will not fully appreciate it until after it saves their lives."

Fabriel nodded as he sipped his tea, and his attention returned to the frescos on the wall. Solas noticed his staring.

"Ah, my work," he said. "Forgive the idiosyncrasies – it had been a long time since I painted anything."

"These are yours?"

"Yes. It's the Inquisitor's tale. These are his victories. I made them in my free time, usually after a battle. Damien is quite inspiring."

"As I've heard," Fabriel said. "I'm surprised at how typical he is, after all the stories."

"I imagine it's the same for those who meet you, Fabriel. Those stories paint heroes, not flawed people rising up in troubled times, shouldering the weight of war and sacrifice so that others can rest easily. They leave much of the tale out, to inspire, to mollify. In the end, there are no real heroes – just people who were in the wrong place at the right time."

"That's…a comforting thought," he said, and Solas saw his eyelids seemed heavier, his movements more laboured. His guilt increased incrementally the more he saw the draught's effects. "I've often felt out-of-place as the Vessel— _ **Venhedis**_."

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I'm just suddenly…so tired."

"Perhaps it's best you retire. We can continue this conversation another time."

"I—I have to read Dorian's letter. It's important."

"It can wait until you're rested."

"No, it's about the…ruins…"

Fabriel's head crashed on to the table with a loud _thud_ , and he was asleep. Solas immediately rose to his feet and quickly checked his son, ensuring that there was no damage, as above him Vivienne appeared in the library from a side door.

"Did it work?" she called down once she noticed them. Solas looked up.

"Yes," he said, "though I fear our timing is as impeccable as ever."

His sarcasm caught her off guard, and soon she found herself hurrying down the stairs, meeting the elf at his desk as he propped Fabriel's head up with his cloak.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Just before he fell asleep, Fabriel mentioned Dorian had sent him a letter."

"One of multitudes, I assume."

"Yes, but he said it's about the ruins – and that it's important."

"Oh." Her expression changed, "That…does change things. Very well. We shall have to read this letter ourselves."

"First drugging him, now invading his privacy. I'm starting to feel as if this was not the wisest course of action."

"Hindsight is an irritating little creature. But we have no choice. Better to risk the Dragon-Slayer's ire than leave matters to Fate."

"Of course." He said, though he did not sound convinced. "We must move him first. We cannot leave him to sleep here."

"Why ever not?"

"It's not comfortable." His answer was short and firm, and Vivienne understood that she would not talk her way out of it. Instead, she decided to point out the obvious.

"The Dragon-Slayer's not exactly a light man, Solas. What do you suggest?"

"That you hold his legs and I hold his shoulders."

She sighed and conceded. "Fine. I suppose one must see things through to the end."

"Let's just hope your draught is as effective as you claim."


	38. Before the Dawn

Solas paced the length of the library as Vivienne read through the letter.

"Ah," she said, "This _is_ interesting."

"The ruins?" he asked, pausing in his step.

"No," she replied, "But it seems Dorian's as forthright as he appears. I know more than a few dowagers who would simply die to read this."

" _Focus_ , Vivienne!"

"I am," she rebuked, "I'm simply indulging myself for a moment. One seldom finds opportunities as good as this. Don't you want to hear that your son is in good health?"

"I would rather pluck out my eyes than read whatever's in that letter."

"A shame. I can assure you at least that Dorian is impressed."

"Vivienne!"

She laughed and continued her reading as the elf began to pace again. Much of it was useless and, more importantly, private – passionate words that had a touch of tenderness behind them – but, nearer the end, she soon came across the information that she and Solas sought.

… _ **and once I'm home, I'm sure we can have a real contest over it.**_

 _ **But, unfortunately, I must come back to business. We were able to reach the ruins' upper levels today, after the soldiers managed to clear the rubble from the stairs. Fabriel, I believe you were right. There are apparatuses up there that I've never seen before, and strangely shaped vials marked with a Tevene word – I would say which one, but the labels are faded to the point where it's difficult to tell. I've included a sketch of them in case you have more ideas, but I'd wager a sack full of gold that these ruins were once a research site for Tevinter draconologists, based on some of the equipment we found.**_

 _ **I'm sending a few of the vials with Leliana's people for you. They're delicate – one of them broke when I picked it up. It took us four hours to extract them all from the site. If the couriers damage them, you have my full permission to skin them alive.**_

 _ **I'll continue with the work here and see if we can find anything else. No sign of drakes yet, but I'll write if we come across them.**_

 _ **Yours in love,**_

 _ **Dorian**_

 _ **P.S. – Could you send more of those pink candies with the little green ribbons? One of the researchers stole my last pack.**_

"It seems our dear Dorian has come across something of interest," Vivienne said as she offered him the sketch, "Vials with an odd shape, apparently ancient."

Solas took the paper from her and stood in silence as he studied it. The vial had been moulded into a strange spiral as if to hold more liquid, and had a stopper with a flared based that he had never seen before. The glass was cracked and it appeared to be empty – it either had never been used, or whatever it held had long since been removed. For some reason, the sight of it made him uncomfortable.

"Is he sending samples to Skyhold?"

"Yes, though by the sounds of it the couriers will have to be careful. Dorian mentions they're quite delicate."

"I've never seen vials like these. Their design is unique."

"I doubt they were made for long distance travel, so whatever these Tevinters were doing it wasn't meant to leave the mountains. Dangerous research, I assume – too dangerous to be left unguarded."

"Which means their decision to do so must have been the result of an extreme situation."

"The Dragon-Slayer might have come across these designs before. Dorian certainly believes he might have a better idea of what these people were up to. But perhaps we should confer with Frederic first, see if he has any sources on what these vials were traditionally used for. He _did_ receive a formal education, after all."

"Fabriel is the better option. His travels have taken him to strange places and shown him strange things. I've no doubt he could have come across one of these at some point, or perhaps he's heard about them from a more knowledgeable source. It's better to ask him before we take sensitive information to someone else."

Vivienne frowned and stared at him for a moment, studying his prone posture, the tension of his shoulders. It was late but he did not seem tired; instead, Solas was as alert as a man who had just slept.

"Guilt shouldn't influence your decisions, Solas," she told him. "In any case, the Vessel is asleep. He won't wake until after the draught has worn off, which won't be until dawn at the earliest. We need someone to investigate this now."

The elf clutched the paper in his hand and turned from Vivienne, studying it for a moment more before he handed it back to her. His face was firm and resolute.

"Do as you see fit," he said, "I'll trust no one else's word but Fabriel's."

The enchanter hesitated, but took it from him after a beat.

"Do you truly believe that the Dragon-Slayer will know what these are?" she asked. It was a serious question, and Solas could see that she needed him to be honest in his reply. It was a rare moment of sincerity for her, perhaps the first the elf had ever seen.

"I cannot be certain," he admitted, "but Fabriel has often surprised me when it comes to matters such as this. Considering that he will be the one receiving the samples, and _we_ invaded his privacy, it seems only fair that we should ask him before we do anyone else."

She paused for another beat. "Very well, Solas. I'll hold off on asking Frederic, at least until you've had the chance to speak to our dear Vessel. But I do expect to be kept informed."

"I'll notify you at once," said Solas, and Vivienne could not tell if he was being truthful. "For now, let me take this sketch and see what can be done. I want to confer with Fabriel the moment I can."

The enchanter nodded and passed him the sketch once more. Solas' lips thinned, and with a slight shake of his head he turned and exited the library.

* * *

He could see the Black City.

He had never seen it before, not outside of the pages of a book. He had heard stories, of course – a place once paved with shimmering gold, blackened by the touch of ancient, prideful magisters. But to see it in person was another matter entirely. Its spires were twisted and dark and stood like spears, its walls in a state of disrepair, and as he looked he felt a deep sense of foreboding spread over him; a sense that he should not be there.

There was movement behind him. Fabriel turned to see Solas approach, clad in a strange plated armour that was elven in design, holding a bulbous staff that sparked with arcane energy. The elf reached his side and looked up at the City ahead, looming as a curse in the distance.

"The Black City," he noted. Fabriel nodded.

"The seat of the Maker, tainted by people's touch." He said, "It's difficult to see."

"Perhaps the more you explore the Fade, the less it will have an effect on you."

"Corypheus was one of those magisters, no? The first of the darkspawn. Did he say anything about that moment, when he walked into the City? Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"You're not going to tell me?"

"It would be pointless to. Corypheus spent much of the time afterwards confused what had happened, and by the time he created the Breach he had convinced himself he was destined for Godhood."

"Does that mean there's no truth in what he might have said, or that you don't want to consider the possibility?"

"It means we cannot trust it, no matter if it was true or not," he told him, "but enough of this. We have more pressing concerns."

"We do?"

"Before you fell asleep—"

"Before you drugged me," Fabriel interrupted, and his father froze. The traveller looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I've had sleeping draught before, Solas. That taste is unforgettable."

"And you continued drinking it?"

"I imagined Vivienne would take personal offense if I didn't." He smiled. "That, and I understand the reasoning behind it. I've not had a decent sleep since Dorian left Skyhold. Perhaps I was a little…stubborn."

"That is an understatement."

"Mother told me I was like my father."

Solas laughed, "Perhaps. Though I prefer to be stubborn than arrogant, as I was when I was young. I'm glad to see you seem to have avoided that. I had enough trouble fending off demons when you were a child."

The pair laughed together, and as Solas rested his hand on Fabriel's shoulder he nodded away from the City.

"Come," he said, "Let's walk. I have something to discuss with you."


	39. A Future of Blood

Fabriel studied the samples under the watchful eye of his father and Vivienne. He was careful – the vials were fractured and brittle – but Vivienne was amazed at his level of concentration, the delicate hand he showed when turning them over. He had the air of a scholar about him, and for a moment she could see a brief and fleeting similarity between himself and Solas.

"These are blood vials," he said. He set the sample he held down on the rotunda table, laying his hands flat on either side of them as he stared.

"Phylacteries?" Solas asked.

"I doubt it. Phylacteries are designed for travel. These would be too difficult to move long distances; these spirals are high fracture risks."

"Then what?" Vivienne asked. The Dragon-Slayer looked at her, and she could not quite read his expression. She had often seen Solas wear it; a calm countenance to mask a terrible truth.

"It could have been used to monitor dragon's blood," he told her, "I've heard about them before but never seen one in person. Their use fell out of practice some centuries ago."

"Monitor a dragon's blood? Who in their right mind would do that? Who could even _attempt_?"

"These haven't been used, so perhaps it was a failed endeavour. The ruins were left in a rush, so the mission could have been abandoned. At the moment all I can do is speculate – at least until I've had a chance to speak with Dorian."

"I doubt he has more information on the matter, Dragon-Slayer," Vivienne pointed out.

"I would still prefer to hear his opinion. Until then I can only say that, whatever these researchers were up to, blood was involved. Which could mean a lot of things, given Tevinter's history."

Fabriel draped a piece of cloth over the vials, as if preparing them for burial, and pushed them gently to the side of the desk. His father watched, his hands behind his back and his chin raised slightly in thought. The Dragon-Slayer straightened.

"I'll need access to Imperium archives," he said, "Someone somewhere must have known what this place was for, what these people were out here to do."

"Josephine could reach out to our Tevinter contacts. I'm certain we'll have to barter for whatever information we need, so it's pertinent she handles the exchange."

"I'll prepare a report. I need to move these to a more secure place; I trust you'll inform Lady Montilyet?"

Vivienne nodded, and with a careful hand the rider lifted the samples and tucked them under his arm. He moved as if he was carrying precious gold.

"Solas," he said, "Would you care to join me?"

The elf followed as he left the rotunda.

* * *

Fabriel and Solas sat in the rider's tower, the fire lit and the door fastened shut against the wind howling outside. His father noticed a smell of jasmine in the air; the man had burnt incense for his prayer that morning, and it still clung to the corners of the room, trapped in the Chantry tapestries and hardcover books.

"I'm concerned," Fabriel admitted as he poured them both some whisky, "These vials were rare even when in use. They were highly specialised, very expensive equipment. I saw no Circle insignias, so it stands to reason that these researchers were being funded by an independent party."

"You believe a magister could have been behind this?" Solas asked. The rider handed him his glass and sank into the chair beside him, his face contemplative as he stared into the fire, watching the flames dance as if he could see the answers in them.

"It's possible," he said. "I would be a fool not to consider it. There's very little information available about the ruins and it seems no Imperium Circle had any clue they even existed. An independent study could explain that."

"And the reasons behind it could be all the more sinister."

"I can only hope that the dragon they were monitoring isn't the same one we face now."

"Are we prepared for the possibility it is?"

"No one can be prepared for that," he drank, "but I will destroy it, no matter the case. This creature cannot be allowed any longer on this earth – even if not a scale has seen sunlight in centuries."

There was a beat of quiet. The fire's flames cracked and hissed, throwing out warm embers and deep shadows that seemed to chase each other around the room. Solas allowed him a moment for his statement to hang in the air, and then ventured to break the spell it had cast.

"I'm curious, vhenan," he said, "Assuming it is a Great Dragon, what do you plan to do with its blood?"

"Drain and seal it. Then I plan to hand it to the Grey Wardens to be shut in a vault and forgotten."

"The Grey Wardens? Are you mad?" Solas said, and his voice carried a sense of incredulity that caught Fabriel off-guard. "Those fools almost laid waste to the entirety of Thedas with their idiocy. You trust them not to abuse the power that Great Dragon's blood offers? To not justify consuming it for the 'greater good'?"

"Weisshaupt is a near impenetrable fortress. The Wardens lost their way, but with Hawke to guide them—"

"You cannot entrust that a languishing power will not do all they can to bolster themselves. That blood would be no safer in a Warden's hands than it would a common bandit's."

The rider set his glass on the floor and clasped his hands together. "I would trust no one else to protect it. Not even the Herald could offer the defence it needs to be kept from the public eye. It's not an ideal situation, perhaps – but it's the situation I find myself in."

"There _is_ another who can take it. Another who understands and appreciates its power, and is less likely to abuse it."

"Who?"

"You, Fabriel."

The rider looked at him, his eyes slightly wide in shock, before quickly shaking his head.

"That is madness," he said, "A liquid with such power, in my possession? It could be stolen, or spilt, or—or—"

"That is why I'm suggesting you drink it."

Fabriel stood and walked towards his stairs.

"That power could unlock your true potential, vhenan," Solas said as he rose from his chair, "The amount you could do, the places you could travel – it would be a limitless source of energy, one that no one could match."

" _That_ is not a power I want for."

"We rarely want for the opportunities we're given. Fabriel, you are the only one who could harness this and use it for a greater destiny; if not you, then a fool who desires only his own gain will take it, and we will be dealing with a force more destructive and powerful than Corypheus."

"Enough of this," he said as he ascended the stairs, "I will listen to no more. I will not drink a dragon's blood – it goes to the Wardens."

With that, Fabriel vanished from his father's sight. He could hear his footsteps overhead, the floorboards creaking as he pulled something large across them, and the sound of a chest opening and closing, so quiet it could have been a whisper. Solas shook his head and went towards the door.

"I am sorry, vhenan," he said, opening it to meet the cold wind outside, "but soon, it will no longer be your choice."


	40. Return to Me

Dorian received a copy of Fabriel's report. In it he detailed that, while unused, the vials' presence was evidence enough that some form of blood monitoring had occurred; and he wanted Dorian to return immediately, regardless of the state of the mission.

The mage had also received a summons from the Inquisitor, and so, despite his progress with the ruins, he packed up his notes and prepared a horse for the short trip home. As he fastened the saddles on his mare, Dorian paused to admire the outpost. The researchers were bundled in warm coats and the soldiers marched every fifteen minutes to stave off the cold; but there was a passion there, a dedication to both themselves and the Inquisitor that could not be ignored. Even if he would have rather lost an arm than spent ten minutes more in the cold, the mage could not deny that he had enjoyed his time there.

But he was eager to see Fabriel again, and so he hurried to depart.

* * *

The rider had posted himself at the gates, where he paced the length of the iron with his arms folded across his chest and a stern impatience about him. The snowfall had started, but he hardly seemed to notice as it dusted his shoulders and wet his boots. Varric, Bull and Blackwall watched from a distance, soon joined by Cole, and the dwarf shook his head the more Fabriel paced.

"He's got it _bad_ ," he said. "Have you ever seen anyone wait up for Dorian? I've seen more people leave the room when he comes in."

"I wish he'd stop pacing. It's giving me a headache just watching him." Blackwall's arms were crossed and his brow furrowed, a slight frown hiding underneath his beard.

"If he stops that snow will just build right up on top of him. Could you imagine? 'Hey Sparkler, welcome back – we let Dragonboy freeze to death while you were gone'."

"He better get back soon," Bull told them, "Feels like the Slayer's two minutes away from putting his blades in the wall."

As the warrior spoke, Solas had come to join their little band of onlookers. He had his hands behind his back, his posture straight and a quiet, thoughtful expression on his face as he looked down on his son.

"I would hope not," he said, which made the men beside him start, "Fabriel is very attached to his blades."

He had prepared for Dorian's return as best he could. He had even stoked a fire in his tower that morning so that it would be warm when he came in. Fabriel stretched his rigid fingers and swirled his daggers in his hands, willing himself to remain patient, a quiet prayer on his lips to calm his frayed nerves.

"And as the black clouds came upon them/ They looked on what pride had wrought/ And despaired./ The work of man and woman/ By hubris of their making/ The sorrow a blight unbearable."

The words made Fabriel remember a prayer he had written himself – one he had created after a particularly difficult case of undead scouring a village's riverside soon after he had left Val Royeaux for the first time. It came to him as a memory, but as it left his lips it felt more than that. It felt as though he was reaching out across the Fade, to the side of the Maker Himself.

"Though these corpses cover me, I am unbending," he started, "I wield Him in my blade/ Breach skin with Holiness/ Cross through blood to meet sanctuary/ Harken voices dead for centuries/ Read words of Holy scripture, scrawled in sacrifice./ This life of mine I offer encased in feeble flesh/ And rid sins mine to claim through martyrdom/ To protect those whom life is blessed/ The faithful in their houses slumber, and mine can never rest."

The gates started to rise; their clacks and clanks pulled Fabriel immediately from his thoughts, and within a moment he had sheathed his blades and hurried to the entrance.

Dorian rode in on a brilliant white mare, kicking up massive drifts of snow as it came to a slow and steady halt. The mage dismounted, and was met by his lover almost as soon as his feet touched the ground.

" _ **Amatus**_ ," he breathed before he kissed him. Dorian returned it with a soft, sweet tenderness, stroking his cheek with his thumb as he cupped his face.

"Well," said Blackwall from their vantage point, "If there was any doubt before, there's none now."

"I didn't have time to send these to you," Fabriel said when they parted. He produced a small package from his pocket, tied with a green ribbon, and handed it to his lover.

"Ah, the pink candies!" Dorian opened them with a laugh, "A perfect welcome home."

He popped one in his mouth and closed the package, and though the rider wanted to enjoy the moment with him, the pair had other matters to attend.

"You read my report, yes?"

"I did," he replied. "I've heard of these vials before, but I've never seen so much as a picture of them. How did you know what they were?"

"When I was a boy I travelled through the Anderfels. I was young and reckless and ended up getting hurt. The person who nursed me to health was an old man who had all sorts of strange books in his hut, and he showed them to me the more I recovered. One of them had a detailed description of the vials inside. I only wish I remembered the name of the book. It had a hard red cover. Perhaps I could ask Lady Montilyet to locate it for me."

"If your only memory of it is that it had a 'hard red cover,' it may be a little difficult to find," Dorian pointed out. "In any case, we've identified the samples and now we need to discuss what happens next. Do you really believe this could be the original dragon? The one they were researching a thousand years ago?"

"I…suspect. Right now I don't want to alarm anyone more than they have to be."

"I'm afraid you have a knack for it, _**amatus**_ ," Dorian said. "Has Josephine been informed?"

"She has. I'm assured she will do all she can to secure us access to a few archives – and I'm hoping you can secure more."

"I can certainly try. I've a few friends who might be able to steer us in the right direction, at least."

"Then no more can be done until we have more information."

"If what you suspect is true – that this entire study was funded by a magister – I could look into that. Altus hide their secrets well, but it _has_ been a thousand years. Things slip when one thinks no one is looking."

"Of course. But would you like to further discuss this elsewhere, without our onlookers?"

Dorian glanced up and saw the men gathered on the upper level of the courtyard, and in a moment Varric, Bull and Blackwall acted as though they were not looking, turning, scratching their heads, and whistling to themselves as they danced in place. Only Solas and Cole kept their steady gaze.

"I'd love to," he replied. "Oh, also, Fabriel?"

He looked at him, and was met with another delicate kiss to the top of his lip, the feeling of fingers sliding through his hair.

"I missed you." His smile was soft and somehow mischievous, and Fabriel gently squeezed his hand.

"Come," he said, "The tower should be warm."

The pair left the courtyard, and the watchful eyes of all those within.


	41. Pride of Possession

The Inquisitor had assembled Fabriel, Dorian, and his advisors for an update on the mission. Fabriel, of course, stressed that the creature that lay beneath them could be as mundane as a High Dragon, but his solemnity marred his reassurance. He had drafted a plan for after the system had been properly excavated and what little of value salvaged; it involved a lot of personal risk, as he had written that he would be the first – and perhaps the only – to enter the lair.

"This plan hardly uses any of the resources we have available," Damien told him after he had read it through. "It seems more like a death wish."

"Yes, the man is hell-bent on annoying me," Dorian replied, and cast a stern look at the Dragon-Slayer as he did.

"I would prefer to be without interference. A Great Dragon's blood is rumoured to contain enormous power. I need to drain and seal it as soon as it's killed so I can prepare it for delivery."

"Delivery? To where?" Leliana asked.

"Weisshaupt," he answered. "The Grey Wardens are damaged but not dead. Theirs is the only fortress I can imagine capable of containing so destructive a force."

"Should that not be the Inquisitor's choice?"

"No."

Damien's eyebrow rose, but he did not reproach him. Instead he decided to reason, "I don't want to be responsible for this any more than you do, but if we don't discuss our options we could stand to make a mistake. It's best that we see what our choices are before we make a decision."

"I understand, Inquisitor. But, as you're no doubt aware, there _are_ no options. Antiva is ruled by merchant princes who would no sooner sell it than drink it themselves – my apologies, Lady Montilyet," he nodded to her, and she returned it with her own polite nod, "and Tevinter cannot be trusted with it as a matter of principle. Dorian."

"No offence taken."

"Ferelden is a more reasonable land, but steeped in too much death and war at any given time. I don't trust that a foolish king – forgive me, Cullen – would not try to refashion themselves as Calenhad and end up unleashing a beast that should be kept asleep. The Free Marches are too scattered, their history too indicative of brash decisions – Lord Trevelyan, I mean no disrespect – and their politics rife with perceived insults that escalate to war. And then there is Orlais, of which no comment need be made. I apologise, Sister Nightingale."

"Got to hand it to the man, he has thought this through," said Dorian, "and I've never seen someone manage to insult everyone in the room quite so quickly."

"Are we not considering Rivain at all?" the Inquisitor asked.

"Rivain? It would be as though I were handing it to the Qunari myself. I would rather not add to their arsenal, Inquisitor." Fabriel leaned over the war table and placed his hands atop it, his face severe as he said, "I have considered it, over and over, and find no alternative. Weisshaupt can provide protection, discretion, and an army that can and will sacrifice their lives to ensure it doesn't fall into enemy hands."

"The Wardens are still recuperating after the decisions Warden-Commander Clarel made during the Breach," Cullen pointed out. "I trust in your expertise, Your Worship, but I'm not convinced that this is the best option. We still have time to consider. We shouldn't rush ourselves."

The Dragon-Slayer looked at the people around him, and realised that he was outnumbered. Even Dorian in their private moments had stated he did not support the idea – and in truth, after he had said that, Fabriel had realised himself that it was not the wisest course of action. But did that mean it would soon be one more burden for him to bear? Would he have to carry it with him, forever bound up in a locket around his neck? He considered his father for a moment. Would he be forced to use it himself, if only to keep it out of others' hands?

"Very well," he said, "I concede defeat. But we must decide, sooner rather than later. Our lives – indeed, the lives of all in Thedas – depend on it."

"I understand. Leave the plan with us; the commander and I will need to amend it so that you're not without support."

Damien bowed, and Fabriel left the room with a shake of his head. Dorian watched as he went, his expression troubled to the point where Josephine took notice.

"Is something the matter, Dorian?" she asked as the other advisors quietly discussed the meeting with Damien. Their murmured conversation was so quiet, it hardly reached their ears.

"No, it's…" he trailed off, then sighed. "Fabriel seems to think this is all on his shoulders. That if he stops, it all stops. I asked Cole and he said he's feeling 'heavier', whatever that means. I'm not convinced he's coping, at least not well."

"I've noticed he seldom seems to leave his work at the moment. Perhaps we could arrange for a distraction? Some entertainment to take his mind off things?" she started to scribble on her board, "What are his pastimes? What does he like? Does he prefer restaurants or theatre?"

"I…don't actually know," he replied, "He doesn't talk about himself much. I don't think I've seen him do much else besides work and drink. He trains, sometimes."

"That…doesn't leave me much to work with," she told him. "Perhaps we can find out? Some well-placed questions, a few leading conversations…"

"Lady Ambassador, are you suggesting we use subterfuge?" Dorian questioned, then before Josephine could respond he smiled. "I like it. We should keep our plans a surprise – Maker knows Fabriel needs to relax, but it doesn't come to him naturally."

"I will start to draft a few ideas right away. Come and find me if he gives you any inspiration."

Josephine made as though to leave, but paused. She turned to Dorian and touched his shoulder, a warm, sympathetic smile on her face as she looked at him.

"No matter what Cole says, I think the Dragon-Slayer seems happier." She told him. The mage looked at her, and could not help a small smile of his own.

"Thank you, Josephine."

Fabriel sat in the Rest, a bottle of hard liquor in one hand and an unfinished letter laid flat against the table top. Maryden was preparing her lute for a song, and he ignored her glances at him, knowing it meant another of his ballads was soon to play.

He looked at the letter. He had written only the first line, and even then he had started again and again:

 _I am the son of the daughter you abandoned._

With a grimace, the rider pushed it away from him. As he downed another mouthful of burning alcohol, Maryden started her song.

" _The Vessel, the Vessel/ How young and impure/ How burdened your shoulders/ How must you endure/ Of man you are born/ Of Maker you made/ Of Mother you're cradled/ Of sword you must stay/ Deft fingers, short embrace/ Peace only in the slice/ Of dragon's teeth blades/ And strike through your mortar/ And hold in your heart/ A sense of home only/ For your finest art./ I call you, I worship/ I beg of you, please/ For my life, I ask you/ My only appease:/ Please take from me demons/ And take them right now/ And beg for my life/ With the sweat of your brow/ I am but lowly and you are divine/ But I beg you, O Vessel/ For life only mine/ To arms…_ "

His bottle sailed through the air and exploded against the side of the wall. A few started and stared at the shattered pieces on the floor – but when they looked for who had thrown it, he was already gone.


	42. The Birth of Before

Fabriel had started to compile a list of containers he trusted could hold the dragon's blood. He researched enchantments and sketched diagrams for the design, and he was so focused on his task that he did not even notice when Dorian entered the library. The mage saw him hunched over the desk, surrounded by three separate piles of books, and approached.

"Hard at work, I see?"

His voice startled the rider. Fabriel looked up with wide eyes, but quickly relaxed when he saw that it was Dorian behind him.

"There's much to be done even without a clear decision. We must have a container."

He shifted one of the piles to the side so that there was a clear space, but Dorian perched himself on the windowsill to watch his lover at work.

"Do you do anything besides work?" he asked, a half-chuckle in his voice.

"Does anything else need to be done?"

"Do you not have other interests? Hobbies?"

"I suppose I read a lot as a child?" he replied as he gingerly pulled a book from a pile, "These are odd questions to ask, Dorian."

"It occurred to me that I don't actually know much about you. I wanted to see what else takes the famed Dragon-Slayer's fancy. Aside from me, of course."

Fabriel paused mid-page and seemed to consider something for a moment. Then he pushed his book aside and turned to Dorian, clasping his hands together in his lap as he met his gaze.

"Very well," he said, "What do you want to know?"

His readiness surprised him. "I'm…not sure. What sort of restaurants do you like?"

"I've never eaten at one," he replied, and Dorian could not mask his disbelief.

"Never? Not even in Val Royeaux?"

"I was the _child_ Vessel, _**amatus**_. I didn't leave the Grand Cathedral's grounds until I left the city itself."

"Fair point," he conceded, "Then theatre? Have you seen any plays?"

"Do my father's shadow puppets count?" He paused. His words had sparked a memory. "One of the sisters once arranged for some local thespians to perform for me at the Cathedral. It was…exceedingly violent. She paid me three sovereigns to never speak of it again."

Dorian laughed. "What was the play about?"

"I don't remember. Something about fog warriors and Orlesian royalty. I believe it was an original work."

"Not the best introduction, then. Still better than most, though. What about hobbies? You must have something you're fond of."

"It may surprise you, but I write poetry."

"Oh? You do?"

"It's one of the few things one can do while travelling. I do it in my head, when I have time. I wouldn't dare waste paper on them."

"It would hardly be a waste. More than a few people would love to read them. Me, especially."

"Perhaps another time," he smiled when he spoke, "For now, I'm content for it to be a quiet pastime. Are those all the questions you have? They seem very specific."

Dorian thought for a moment. He had not considered that Fabriel would be so forthcoming. He had been prepared for more of a fight, a battle to make his case, and found nothing but sincerity in his answers. He wondered it meant he could peer more into his background; into that ill-fated past he had buried and let lie.

"What's your earliest memory?" he asked. It was a question that formed in his mind as it left his mouth – and Fabriel's reaction to it was odd. He hesitated, apparently uncomfortable, before he closed his eyes and let out a long exhale. He seemed to be thinking.

"The birth of my brother." He replied.

Dorian quickly tried to reassure him, "Fabriel, if you don't feel—"

"No," he said. "It's time I spoke about him. At least with you, it means something."

There was a beat of silence as Fabriel checked for listening ears. His voice dropped to a low murmur and Dorian hurried to sit at his side, where he could both hear him more clearly and lessen the chance that someone else might eavesdrop.

"My brother," he started. The words seemed to take a concentrated effort. "I was three when Mother told me she was pregnant. Of course, I didn't understand. She explained I would soon have a new playmate, and that excited me. I waited, and I waited, and my mother claimed I became quite brattish the bigger she grew. She was _my_ mother, after all. Why couldn't she run after me, throw me in the air, sit me on her lap? Why did she have to rest so much? Was I not being a good boy? I was hurt, confused, angry. I remember all of these feelings, even if not the specific instances I felt them."

The rider shook his head with a soft chuckle.

"How selfish children are. But, Mother took my tantrums in her stride. When her labour started, Father pulled me aside and told me words that have stayed in my mind to this day. 'Listen to me, little Fabriel,' he said, 'The time's come for you to realise you're not the only thing in the world that matters.' And I took it to heart. Come dawn, I saw him for the first time. This little whimpering bundle in my mother's arms, so small and pink, wrapped up in the whitest sheets I had ever seen. In an instant, no one else mattered more to me than him. My baby brother."

He remembered that moment as a single image, forever frozen in his mind. His mother's face had blurred over time, but he remembered Goimar down to the last detail. He had his father's hair, their mother's face-shape, and a small button nose that flared indiscriminately, his little hands clenched shut and his eyes closed to the world. He was Fabriel's sole responsibility, in so simple a time. He was perfect.

"Goimar was born in Bloomingtide, nine-fourteen," he said. "He died in Harvestmere, nine-twenty. I didn't…I couldn't…"

Dorian cupped his cheek and drew his face gently towards him. "Enough, _**amatus**_. Don't open memories you aren't ready for. It won't help."

Fabriel looked into his eyes, so warm and affectionate, and he felt safe. He wrapped his arms around Dorian's waist and laid his head on his shoulder, murmuring quietly:

"I know."

Josephine had started her draft but soon found herself at a wall. She had searched for inspiration in her novels and paintings and discovered little that would help her. After three hours at work she decided to find Dorian and see what he had uncovered, hoping that he would have a solution or – at the very least – a vague idea of what the Dragon-Slayer enjoyed.

* * *

The ambassador entered the rotunda in the evening, when she was certain Fabriel would have excused himself for training. She immediately noticed the quiet. The ravens were hushed and no spies could be heard overhead, and the only person she noticed was Solas, leaning over his desk to read something.

"Lady Ambassador," he said when he noticed her. He straightened as she approached.

"Solas, hello. Have you seen Dorian at all?"

"He and Fabriel left some hours ago. I believe the lie they told me was that they were going to research containers."

"Oh," she said, "That's disappointing. I was hoping to catch him."

"Is there something wrong?" He asked. Josephine looked at him, and an idea sparked in her mind. She was not certain if it was wise but, as Solas was the Dragon-Slayer's father, perhaps he could offer her some insight?

"No, but I would like to ask you something. I must stress that what I'm about to tell you is unusual; however, it must be kept a secret, no matter how strange it may seem."

"Alright, Lady Ambassador, if you believe I can help. What is it?"

"Dorian and I have agreed to plan a surprise for the Dragon-Slayer, to help take his mind from the mission. But because he so rarely talks about himself, we're both at a loss of what to plan. Do you have any suggestions?"

Solas' expression changed, "A surprise? Fabriel told you of his birthday? I'm amazed."

"Birthday?"

"Yes. In three days."

"I had…no idea." Solas could almost see the cogs in her head speed up.

"Ah." The elf said. "Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it."

"No, no – this is excellent! We can plan a celebration for him. Let me see….Firstfall twenty-second…This Sunday. Well, it will be rather short-notice but I should be able to have all we need delivered."

"I'm not certain—"

"Thank you, Solas!" she put her hand on his forearm, "This has helped me immeasurably. I shall tell Dorian as soon as possible."

Josephine all but skipped out of the room, and Solas was not fast enough to call her back. He considered following her, but thought better of it.

 _Perhaps a celebration is what Fabriel needs,_ he thought to himself as he collected his books for the night. _It's been years since he so much as acknowledged his birthday. And Josephine is the best person to plan it, after all this time._

 _Maker, what if this all ends horribly?_

He reached out to snuff out the candle.

 _I'll just blame Dorian._


	43. Provisions and Preparations

The Dragon-Slayer had learnt to expect people's reverence and reluctance to speak plainly to him, but even he found the servants were acting strangely. Their replies to his questions were full of unnatural stops and pauses, and more than once they had cut themselves off mid-sentence to attend some other suddenly urgent task. It did not quite irritate him but he did wonder what had happened – and who was the cause of it. He assumed it was another rumour and did his best to put it out of his mind.

He had spent most of the morning narrowing down his choice of container. There were a few from reputable sources that caught his eye; and he was certain that he could procure them, if not with his name alone then with the Inquisitor's. But collection could prove a problem. He shifted the large file he had on them to the side and propped his forearms against the table, peering around the room in a rare moment of rest. Helisma had shown him her research on draconic subspecies at dawn, and he had asked her to compile a small catalogue of them for Damien's pleasure. He could see her at her desk now, patiently re-scribing her notes, her face an odd cross between vacant and concentrated. Her Tranquil insignia saddened him to see.

That odd elven bookkeeper moved past and briefly obscured her from his vision. Fabriel could never remember his name. He had said it once, but hurried and from across the room, and had immediately rushed off while declaring he was needed elsewhere on important business. He reminded him of one of his storybook goblins, hoarding all of those rare novels and meticulously combing the shelves for their place. He sometimes even walked with the hunch.

"Your Grace!"

Josephine's voice cut through his wandering thoughts. He turned to see her come up the stairs, one hand holding her candle-board and the other her dress.

"Lady Montilyet," he greeted her as he stood. "A pleasure to see you. Is there something the matter?"

"I only need to ask a question," she assured him, "We have some dignitaries arriving for a visit soon. We've been informed that some of them are eager to meet you, specifically. Do you have any preferences for dinner? Meats, cheeses, wines?"

"I'm not a picky man. Whatever it is the Inquisitor asks for, I'm sure I won't find it too difficult to eat."

"A kind sentiment, Dragon-Slayer, but I know – even though I don't understand – how you deplore dinner parties. I hoped your favourite foods would make it more bearable for you."

"That's thoughtful of you. But it's no matter, Lady Montilyet. I've not had a problem with the selection so far."

Josephine curtsied to hide her thinned smile, and with a bow Fabriel returned to his desk as she departed the scene. The ambassador passed the fresco room to return to her normal office. She did not notice Solas watch her leave.

* * *

Josephine and Dorian met each other in her office to discuss their preparations over lunch. The cook had prepared them a meal of pork and winter vegetables, and the servants had set out a small display of blueberry cakes and baked treats for their afternoon tea. Josephine took the time to lament her failed endeavour to find out Fabriel's favourite foods, cutting open a small scone while complaining.

"He just told me that he'll eat 'whatever the Inquisitor asks for'. I was _sure_ the visiting dignitaries story would work."

"A shame, but at least it happened now and not tomorrow. We're on a tight enough deadline as it is. Perhaps we'll just have to guess and hope for the best."

"I would hate for us to run the risk of putting out food he doesn't enjoy, but it may be our only option. Have you had any success with the others?"

"I have," he said. "Damien, Varric, Blackwall, Sera and Bull have all confirmed. Vivienne too, though I'm fairly certain she just wants to see if we can pull it off. Cullen wasn't certain he could drag himself away from work, but he's found the time."

"Excellent. And the rest?"

"Still waiting, but I'm confident they'll all come. Do we have any ideas for other guests?"

"I've decided that an open party is best," she replied, "All of the soldiers _and_ our guests revere the Dragon-Slayer. It would boost morale to be involved in the celebration of his life. We should allow them to come as they please – after we've surprised him, of course."

There was a polite, quiet knock at the door, and Josephine had no time to call enter before it opened and Solas stepped inside. Both she and Dorian looked at him quizzically.

"Solas," said the ambassador as he approached, "Is something wrong?"

"No, Lady Montilyet. I overheard your conversation with Fabriel in the rotunda. I thought it best I come and offer my insight, for whatever it's worth."

"For his party?" Dorian asked. The elf had not seemed too enthused at the idea, so it was strange to have him offer much else besides his attendance.

"Yes. It seemed the most logical course of action if we want this to succeed. I don't know Fabriel well as a man, but as a boy I had a few chances to learn about him. I know what foods he liked then – though his tastes may have changed over the years."

"At this point, Solas, we need all the help we can get," said Josephine as she prepared her board, "Come, join us."

He pulled a spare seat from across the room and sat down with them, accepting the plate and treats offered to him, while the ambassador took out a fresh piece of parchment and wrote a small bullet point – _'Party Food'_.

"What did he like as a child?" she asked after a time. Solas swallowed the tart that was in his mouth.

"He had a fondness for cherries, or, well anything even slightly red at the time," he said, "but his absolute favourite treat was honeycomb. He used to devour the stuff as a boy. He prefers it prepared a certain way – I can tell the servants once it's delivered."

"It's odd. I don't believe the Dragon-Slayer has ever asked the staff for specially prepared food before."

"He thinks it's a waste of their time," Dorian told her. "Evidently he either doesn't realise or doesn't care that that's their entire job. I've tried to have him ask for honey-glazed ham. He asks for plain cooked."

"He values the servants, even if that value presents itself oddly." Solas said.

"Regardless, honeycomb is more than easy to have delivered. Cherries will be harder to come by because of the season, but I'm sure I can find some. Somewhere…" Josephine shook her head. "Is there anything else?"

The elf reached back into his memories. He had only ever seen Fabriel in the Fade, but he could still remember some of his little quirks and qualities, the charms that had both enthralled and attracted spirits to him.

"Chocolate tart." He said. Dorian threw him a curious sideways glance.

"Chocolate? He normally refuses it."

"He was taught from an early age that it was a special treat," he explained. "He rarely ate it. But, there's also the chance that he no longer likes it."

Josephine paused and considered her options. "I'll have some prepared, regardless. If he doesn't, the other guests will gladly eat it. I hope. Sera will have to be watched around it."

The mages murmured their agreement, but before Solas could speak further the door opened once again. Fabriel stepped inside, his eyes trained on the papers he was holding, before he looked up and noticed the small gathering in front of him. His brow furrowed in confusion, and the trio stared at him as though in a slight panic.

"Ah, are you having a…meeting?" he asked.

"Oh, yes!" Josephine said. "But you're not intruding, Your Grace."

"What are you discussing?"

There was a slight pause. The trio looked at each other, scrabbling for an answer, before all three blurted out in unison, "Mages."

"You're having a meeting…about mages? Is there a pressing concern?" he held his papers in one hand, gesturing with the other, "I could help, if so."

"No, no, Your Grace, it's not an urgent matter. We're simply discussing a…" she searched her mind, "…request, that Divine Victoria considers allowing mages higher positions in the Chantry."

The Dragon-Slayer's brow remained furrowed, but he nodded. "Very well. If the Divine's friendship with the Inquisitor is as close as it seems, perhaps she will listen. I'll voice my support for the idea. Mages have been kept too long out of positions of respect and power." Dorian felt a warm bloom in his chest.

He approached with his papers, and noticed that Josephine tilted her board away from him. There was writing on it that he could not read at that angle. His confusion mounted, but he said nothing. Perhaps it was a rather more delicate discussion than he was led to believe.

"I've narrowed the search down to three particular containers," he told her, "I'll need a meeting with the Inquisitor to discuss collecting them. We would have to ride to Denerim for one."

"I shall clear his schedule," she assured him. Dorian saw an opportunity and gestured to their tray.

"Would you like a cake?" he asked. Fabriel looked and politely shook his head.

"No thank you," he said, "I should help Helisma with her notes. Also, I'm not too fond of blueberries."

The rider performed a small bow and excused himself. Once the door was firmly closed behind him, the trio let out a unanimous sigh of relief. The ambassador quickly scribbled on her notes _**'NO BLUEBERRIES'**_.

"That bodes well. He despised blueberries as a child."

"Thank you, Solas. I'm confident I can have all His Grace's favourite foods delivered by tomorrow. Do you think it would be too much to bring him a gift?"

Dorian paused for a moment. He had been so focused on preparation, he had not considered Fabriel's gift at all – or if the man would even want one. What could he find on such short notice?

"I have a gift prepared," Solas mentioned, "It would be a kind gesture, even if it's not something he necessarily wants."

"Excellent! I commissioned a bard for an original work. She's collecting all of the Dragon-Slayer's songs and tales into a single book, the first to be made. I paid handsomely for her to have it finished by the twenty-second."

Solas wondered if she realised just how much coin she had wasted.

"I'm certain I heard Bull mention a gift as I was leaving," Dorian commented. "Come to think of it, so did Sera. Perhaps this wasn't too good an idea."

"We will vet whatever parcels Sera brings with her. And her clothes."


	44. Heartfelt

Denerim. The place left a sour taste in his mouth. There were memories there he wanted to avoid; nightmares of darkspawn and spurned love he could never quite escape. The journey would commence later in the week. He would be joined by the Inquisitor, and whomever else Damien chose to accompany them.

Fabriel had prepared for the trip ahead of time. He had his essentials packed and had made a stop in the stables, where he spent an afternoon with his wilful and restless Onyx. The rider had fed him grain, whispered little comforts in his ears, and promised him that soon he would be out on the road again – if only for a short time.

"Dorian," he said as he entered his tower. The mage was on one of his chairs, reading something that he quickly closed and set aside. The fire was lit, and the familiar smell of warm embers mixed in with wood and stone and a faint lingering of the rider's morning incense drifted on the air.

" _ **Amatus**_. I was wondering where you were."

"Onyx has spent too much time in that stable," he told him, shedding his cloak to hang it behind the door, "He's stamping a lot more than usual. I'll need to ride him before I leave for Denerim, stretch his legs. He's a stallion, not a broodmare."

Dorian started to prepare them both a drink and shooed his lover to his chair. Fabriel ran his hand across the small of his back as he went.

"The servants are acting strangely," he mentioned while he sat down. "It feels like they're trying to avoid me. Most won't even look me in the eye. Perhaps another rumour has sprung up?"

The mage's mouth quirked, "I haven't heard anything. I'm sure Vivienne would have mentioned if one had – she always keeps on top of these things."

He came to sit at his side, offering him his drink, and smiled as Fabriel took a small sip.

"Put it out of your mind," he soothed, "There's enough in there as it is."

"It just seems so odd. What could have caused it?"

"You _are_ the Vessel, _**amatus**_. It's not as if that doesn't cut an intimidating figure – as handsome as that figure is," his tone was coy and playful.

"These are the same people who serve the Herald of Andraste. I doubt they haven't grown used to tending to people of high status."

"Damien? He's old news. You're the Dragon-Slayer, a brand-new divine symbol to tremble before." His lover seemed unconvinced. Dorian leaned forward and comfortingly squeezed his hand, his eyes both sympathetic and sincere as he gazed into Fabriel's own. "It's nothing serious, Fabriel. There's no reason to fret. Give it a few days and it will be as if it never happened."

The rider sighed. "I suppose I should focus myself on more pertinent problems, regardless. The Inquisitor confirmed we ride out to Denerim in three days. I can't imagine why he would want to wait for so long."

"It's Damien – he always has a reason. Best not dwell on it."

Fabriel swigged his drink and set the empty glass on the floor at his feet. He did not respond to Dorian, but the way he tilted his head and rolled his shoulders told his lover that the question was playing on his mind.

"Forgive me, _**amatus**_ ," he said after a beat, "I haven't asked about your meeting."

"Meeting?" he replied, and then suddenly remembered, "Oh! It went well. But the real test will be convincing Cassandra—I mean, Divine Victoria to support the move."

"Mages have been kept confined for too long. I was disappointed to see the Divine chose to reinstate the Circles; though I suppose there are far less restrictions to them now." He shook his head. "There was never going to be a simple answer for what happened after the rebellion. The Inquisitor's support was invaluable to the mages."

"Did you support the rebellion itself?" He questioned. He had never thought of Fabriel's stance on the war, and was curious to see what his attitude was towards it. He was, after all, a staunch defender of the people, even if he did favour mage liberties.

"By default, I was neutral. The Chantry cannot visibly appear to take sides when it comes to politics. But I felt for the mages – I still do. I only wish it hadn't come to bloodshed. That can be avoided, no matter the situation."

"I agree," said Dorian. He felt that warm bloom in his chest again as Fabriel turned his face towards the firelight.

"That rebellion claimed the lives of too many innocent people," he said. "We must all work to ensure it never happens again."

* * *

Vivienne had approached Varric on a whim, curious to see what he had found as a gift for the Dragon-Slayer's birthday. When she discovered he had purchased new holsters for his blades, she was disappointed at its suitability.

"His ones are decent – strong leather, good hold – but these are top quality. I had the Merchants Guild find them for just the occasion."

He held them out to her after a brief glance to ensure the Dragon-Slayer was not nearby. The leather was firm and shone under the hall's firelight, and the straps were joined and stitched to perfection. A true master had made them. The rider would be delighted to receive them as a gift, even if it did not show on his face.

"What did you get, Iron Lady?" he asked. He half-expected her to say she had bought him an outfit that followed the latest Orlesian fashion trend, but was surprised at her reply.

"I purchased a new potions bag. I've noticed he doesn't seem to carry one, and throwing all those draughts in with all his other possessions seems the easiest way to have them break."

"Look at that, Vivienne, you have a heart after all." He said. "Want to bet what everyone else got him? Bull wiped me out. I need to recover some of my losses."

The mage laughed, "Very well, Varric – but I expect my coin when I win."


	45. Decorate the Rest

Dorian had chosen the Rest to host the rider's party, and with the help of Damien's legion of servants he set about preparing it. Solas, for all of his misgivings, agreed to distract the Dragon-Slayer, and so as Dorian put up decorations and shifted furniture the elf went with his son to ride their horses on the ice paths that surrounded Skyhold.

Fabriel enjoyed the sight of the mountains. He steered Onyx through the snow with practiced ease, and Solas noticed how he seemed to embrace the cold sunlight on his face, the feel of the frost against his skin. He seemed at peace, rid of all the problems that plagued his mind. His father watched as he rode almost carefree across the ancient ever-shifting paths, clearing enormous boulders and small chasms with one great leap, and did his best not to comment on his silence. It was enough to be with him, circled by the cradling Frostbacks.

The pair travelled far from the fortress, until Fabriel commented on their proximity to the research outpost. Solas made certain to crush his ideas of a 'quick visit'.

"Until the Inquisitor orders it, none of us will be inside that cave again," he told him. "It's best not to spoil such a peaceful morning by seeking out trouble, vhenan. Today is special."

He let out a discontented murmur, "Don't remind me."

"Forgive me, Fabriel – I forget it's perhaps been an age since you've acknowledged it."

"I haven't since Mother died. It seemed pointless. Those for whom it meant something are gone."

"It's an important day to many, vhenan. For me, it marks thirty-three years since the birth of my son. For the faithful, it's the day their future protector came into the world and begun his journey to Vessel-hood. It's a very special date for all of us."

"Thirty-three years…" he said, followed by a soft sigh and a snap of his reins. "There's a ledge over there. We should see where it leads."

* * *

The decorations were up, and Dorian inspected them to within an inch of their life. He wanted them to be perfect. The tablecloths were set and the servants were starting upon the last of the preparations; soon the food would be ready, and the long table he and Josephine had acquired and placed in the middle of the first floor would be heavy with it.

"This all looks wonderful, Dorian," said Josephine when she came in to see how he was faring. "The Dragon-Slayer will love it. I've been assured by our cooks that the food is on schedule. All we need now is for Solas to keep him occupied while it's set out."

"Excellent. Solas took him on a ride in the mountains a few hours ago. That should keep him out of Skyhold long enough."

"This place looks amazing." The Inquisitor's voice caught both of their attentions. He admired the decorations as he stood at the door, impressed at the amount of work done is so short a space of time. There were banners, colourful cloths wrapped around the banisters, decorative bowls set out to be filled with various sweets and treats, and even Cabot's bar had been adorned with a few 'party favours' and confetti. Cabot himself was behind it, drying a stein as he watched the people at work.

Damien came further inside to join his friends' side. Dorian seemed pleased with himself, though there was a nervousness in the way he spoke.

"I hope Fabriel feels the same."

Cabot murmured from across the room, "He better, the shit I've put up with today."

"I should find Sera and make sure her gift isn't going to blow up the tavern."

"No need," Josephine told him, "I saw her earlier. Her gift is…surprisingly appropriate. We shall see what the Dragon-Slayer makes of it."

Dorian and the Inquisitor murmured quiet, nervous agreement.

* * *

Fabriel and Solas had dismounted from their steeds to investigate a small cave in the mountainside. It led to a dead end, but the pair found an old Avvar necklace near one of the stalagmites, and the rider felt almost like a child again as he held it up to the sunlight.

"Beautiful," he said. "A gift from a lover?"

"We should come here when next we dream. Perhaps the spirits will have answers for us."

"Perhaps." He stared at the necklace for a while more. Its metal was rusted and the string dirtied with time; it was forgotten long ago, and he felt an unusual ache in his soul as he set it gently down on the floor. "I should buy Dorian a gift."

"Odd to consider on your own birthday." Solas started the trek back to their horses, with Fabriel following behind.

"He and I aren't a typical couple. Our relationship has caused unrest," he said, "and I fear we have yet more hurdles waiting for us in the future. I promised him I would endure the rumours – but it's not just me who has to bear that burden. I thought a gift might show that I appreciate him and the patience he's shown me."

Once the pair reached the outside world, Fabriel mounted his horse and looked out at the mountains around them. That small, serene smile returned to his face, and he took in a deep breath to savour the crisp winter air. Solas watched as he closed his eyes against the breeze.

"This is a fine day." He said, "Even if it is 'my' day."

* * *

The food had been set out, and Dorian alongside the servants arranged it until it was a magnificent display of colours, shapes, and smells. The chocolate tarts bordered enormous bouquets of honeycomb and cherries decorated small pink and blue cakes, muffins and sweets weaving through on little plates painted with images of ancient legends. Josephine had secured a variety of meats, cheeses, and nuts, and these were placed on a separate table nearby; a less colourful display that relied more on its flavour than aesthetic. He imagined Bull would spend much of his time there, if not at the bar in a drinking contest between himself, Blackwall, and the Dragon-Slayer.

"I've heard word from the archers," Damien said as he returned from the courtyard, "Solas and the Dragon-Slayer have been seen en-route back to the castle. Is everything ready?"

"It is. Now we just have to hope this all goes to plan."

"If you don't know if he'll like it, why did you organise this party?" he questioned. His tone was not doubtful nor rude, but rather curious. He had seen the pains both Dorian and Josephine had taken to ensure all was done on time; and if the Dragon-Slayer did not care for it, would it have been a wasted effort?

"Because the gesture means more than the thing itself," he replied. "I care about Fabriel. I care that he takes on all these problems and internalises them as his own. This is just…a little reminder that he's not just the Vessel."

The corner of Damien's mouth quirked, "How very romantic of you, Dorian."

"Yes. Well. We'll consider it romantic if it actually works. Otherwise it's just a blind, clumsy foray into someone's personal life." He shook his head. "They should be here soon. We should finish up before they are."


	46. Long Live the Vessel

Fabriel walked into the Rest expecting to drink to his newfound revival. When people shouted, "Surprise!", his first reaction was to jump and unsheathe his blades, prepared to defend himself against strange assailants. He crouched low and glared instinctively, daggers ready…and paused when he saw the familiar faces of the Inquisition around him.

There was a beat of silence. The rider saw decorations, bunting, a wealth of wonderful food on display – and the Circle, from Varric to Vivienne, Sera to Blackwall, watching him as he slowly rose to full height and lowered the weapons he clutched so tightly.

"What…is this?" he asked at length. Josephine, who was not deterred at his reaction, smiled and gestured to the display.

"Happy birthday, Your Grace!" she announced, to which the Circle raised steins and wine glasses, cheering once more. Dorian was with them. He seemed nervous; the smile on his face twitched and shifted from wide to small, and he watched his lover for signs of displeasure. Behind him came Solas, whose smile seemed more relaxed and content.

"Welcome to your party, vhenan," he said. "There are far too few reasons to celebrate these days."

"Who arranged this?" he asked. The question was loaded with confusion, shock, perhaps, and it was the Inquisitor who stepped out to answer.

"It was a combined effort," he informed him, "Josephine and Dorian did most of the work."

Fabriel looked at his lover. He gestured him forward, and though he was nervous the mage came closer to the small group.

"Is this true?" he asked. Dorian's eyes remained steady, but he could feel his heart thrumming hard against his chest. He could not read the Dragon-Slayer's expression, nor could he tell if he was incensed, uncomfortable, or just plain confused. The uncertainty made it worse.

"It is," he confirmed. There was a moment of stillness. Fabriel stared at his lover, gaze curiously blank – and then grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him into a searing kiss.

"Well," announced Blackwall, slamming down his stein, "That's all the sign I need that it's time to drink."

"Hand me a glass, please," said Solas as he walked towards them, and as Dorian and the rider parted, the crowd started the celebration. Fabriel put his forehead against his lover's, his face warm and full of affection.

" _ **Thank you, amatus**_." He murmured.

* * *

The party was wonderful. Fabriel was in high spirits; he found it within himself to withstand the reverence of the soldiers, the worship of the sisters, and received the company of nobles who were no doubt to spread the confirmation of his and Dorian's relationship. He did not care. He drank with the Circle and forgot, at least for a time, what laid ahead of them.

"The ride to Denerim should be relatively painless," he said to the Inquisitor as the pair enjoyed an ale. "That is, if all goes to plan. I've sent word ahead and received a report that more than one person is interested in this container. It doesn't bode well."

"Do you ever switch off?" Damien asked. His tone was playful, and there was a chuckle in his voice as he said it.

"Forgive me, Inquisitor. I forget where we are."

"Come now," he said, "We've known each other long enough for you to call me Damien."

Fabriel paused and looked out of the window for a moment. The Inquisitor noticed his change of mood, but waited until he was ready to speak again rather than break the silence.

"When I first came to Skyhold, I mentioned I couldn't say much about our personal relationship," he started. "I felt as though you had imprisoned me, that you were a jailer as much as the Chantry. I was wrong. You've shown constant consideration for my well-being, have reaffirmed over and over again that you think of me as one of your people, even after so short a time here, and have defended my personal life as if it were your own. The leadership you demonstrate isn't found often, nor is it easy to maintain. I respect you, Damien. I feel as though you and I will be friends long after my service to the Inquisition has ended."

"Thank you, Dragon-Slayer. That means a lot coming from you."

"Please," he said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "Call me Fabriel."

Damien smiled, the corner of his mouth quirked, and wrapped his arm over his shoulder. The pair shared a quiet moment of bonding before Sera bounded up to them, clutching a poorly wrapped parcel.

"Birthdays are good," she said as she thrust it into the rider's hands, "Birthdays make you people. And birthdays mean gifts. I talked to my friends and they found this for you. Well, me, but I'm giving it to you. Gifts, yeah?"

The Inquisitor braced himself as his companion unwrapped the present. Fabriel peeled each layer away and watched as, slowly, whatever laid inside came into view. When he saw it, his face softened.

"Sera," he breathed, "A Free Marches amulet?"

"Real deal, that. Doesn't matter your blood most of the time – just memories. Family's family. No long-lost dads can change that."

Fabriel took the string and draped the amulet around his neck. It dangled beside the Chantry necklace he wore, and fit perfectly underneath his clothes. He felt instantly closer to the small, forgotten village he had called home all those years before.

"Thank you, Sera." He said. "This is a wonderful gift. I'll wear it with pride."

"Good, yeah? Knew my friends had come through for me there. Now follow me. Bull and Blackwall're having a drinking contest. Even Solas's watching."

The elf ran into the crowd, leaving Damien and Fabriel to hurry after her.

* * *

"I'll put coin in." Varric said as he set a large purse on the table. "Gonna match it, Dragonboy, or do we have a fold?"

The Dragon-Slayer inspected his cards. The men around him – Solas, Blackwall, Bull, Cullen, and Dorian – had perfect poker faces, but he was confident in his hand. Soon he set his cards down and pushed his own purse forward.

"I'm in."

The group analysed their cards, discarding and rearranging them as and when it seemed fit, their eyes glancing up every so often to note changes in their opponents' faces. Fabriel tuned out the din of noise around them and concentrated on his hand. He was aiming for a suit of Knights. He had dawn and roses, and on his next pick up he found sacrifice. Dorian could not help but steal glances at his lover's intense expression.

"So, Slayer, how's the party so far?" Varric asked as he retrieved another card.

"It's wonderful," he replied, though he did not look up, "Dorian did an excellent job."

"That _does_ sound like me," Dorian said. The rider's mouth twitched.

"Don't forget about our lady ambassador, vhenan," said Solas, "She poured as much of herself into this as Dorian."

"I must admit, it's true."

"I appreciate it, from all involved. It was a wonderful surprise. Though perhaps for future reference, surprising a man whose first instinct is to draw could end badly."

"I did wonder if one of us would end up with a new knife wound for the trouble," Cullen commented.

"Worth it." Bull swigged his drink with his free hand.

Fabriel set away one of his serpents and pulled out another card. Slowly he turned it towards himself, and smiled.

Wisdom.

"I saw Cole in the crowd when I came in, but I haven't seen him since. Does anyone know where he is?" he asked as he slipped the card into his deck.

"Skulking, probably. If someone starts crying, he'll be nearby."

He peered out at the people around them, but could find no spirit amongst them. He hoped that he would appear again soon – he was peculiar, but he had found himself oddly protective of him.

"The kid'll turn up by himself," Bull said, "You know what won't? These cards." He held up the card he had just pulled and the table set their decks down. "Angel of Death. Let's see what you've all got."

The men slowly upturned their hands. Fabriel looked at Varric as the wave of reveals reached him, and the dwarf smiled.

"Might as well pay up now, Dragonboy," he said as he turned his cards. "Two pairs – serpents and songs."

Fabriel laid his own deck flat against the table. "Four-of-a-kind."

Blackwall burst into laughter as Bull pushed the heap of coin towards the rider. Solas smiled as beside him, Varric shook his head with a disgruntled sigh.

"Shit," he said, "This is _really_ not my day."

"I'll buy a round. Will that make up for it?" Fabriel laughed.

* * *

The Dragon-Slayer had spent some time with Cole. He and the spirit sat and talked about people's pain for a while, he made some cryptic comments about the rider himself, and, after a while, others had joined them for more drinks and stories of their various adventures. Cole had even handed Fabriel a gift – and while he was not certain what he would do with a soft nug toy, he appreciated it all the same.

The rider soon parted from his friends for some fresh air. As he stood outside of the Rest, he marvelled at the windows lit up with firelight, and the stream of drunken people that flowed in and out of the door. Their sounds of revelry bolstered his heart. On occasion he would hear, "To the Dragon-Slayer! Long live the Vessel!", and the sound of steins and glasses slamming on wooden table-tops. He soon turned towards the main fortress, and wondered for a moment how much history had been made there. In those dark and daunting grey walls, the Inquisitor had saved the lives of hundreds of thousands of people – people he would never meet, but who sang his name in every corner of Thedas.

 _Never was so much owed by so many to so few._

Solas soon followed him outside. He approached slowly and with his hands folded together, a certain note of pride on his face when he looked at his son.

"Vhenan." He said. Fabriel looked up from where he leant against the stone balustrades, and welcomed him with a nod. "Am I disturbing you?"

"No. I just needed a moment."

The elf joined him. He rested his arms on top of the stone and looked out at Skyhold, a place with so many memories, so many ancient whispers.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Fabriel said. "To think that so much was achieved here; it's almost beyond imagining."

"The Inquisitor is a wise man, and an excellent leader. He showed compassion and courage when most sought the comfort of old feuds and petty arguments."

"Perhaps I should have joined when it all started."

"Corypheus' threat has ended, vhenan, but yet more threats remain. Can a land ruled by pride and selfishness ever truly be peaceful?" Solas paused and shook his head. "Ah, but enough of that for now. I almost forgot your gift."

"You bought me something?" The elf put his hand in his pocket and produced a small photo-frame from it. The frame itself was made of silver and decorated with wolves in various poses, some with fangs bared and others prowling across the metal. The craftsmanship was extraordinary. But it was not this that caught Fabriel's attention. Instead, he looked at the drawing it held – of a little boy so familiar, sat on the lap of an elf. The boy was peeking curiously at something in the distance, and the elf that held him seemed at peace, his face happy and serene as he looked down on his small charge and cradled him in his arms.

"Forgive me for any mistakes," Solas said, "I drew it from memory."

"What is this?" he asked.

"The first time I introduced you to one of my friends," he said. "You were a marvel, Fabriel. Such natural curiosity, and such talent. The spirits that you saw, you understood. You shaped the Fade as if it was no more than a child's building blocks. I was proud of you. I still am. One day you will realise how truly unique you are, and how far your reach will stretch once you reach your full potential."

The man stood in silence for a beat to stare at the picture. He felt a strange sense of belonging in it – a spark of a memory that ignited and died in the same breath. As he touched his boyhood self's face, he found himself saying:

"Thank you, Father."

Solas paused, and then relaxed into a warm and affectionate smile.

"Ma serannas, my son."

"Oh!"

The voice caught both of them off-guard. The pair looked up to see Dorian had left the Rest in search of his lover, and Solas nodded at him to come closer.

"Dorian," he greeted, "I was just giving Fabriel his gift. I shall leave you two alone. Lord Trevelyan wanted to see me, regardless."

He departed. Dorian watched until he was firmly out of sight, and then approached his lover with a pleased smile. Fabriel slipped the frame in his pocket as he drew near.

"Well, this went better than expected," he said.

"This has been amazing, Dorian. Where did you find cherries at this time of year?"

"Josephine always knows someone." The pair embraced. "We were worried this would all blow up in our faces. There were bets."

"Had it happened a few months ago, perhaps it would have. But the Inquisition feels almost like a family to me now. They've seen me angered, injured, and have accepted me in all. Perhaps I needed this to see how much these people have come to mean to me. In over twenty years, I haven't had a single birthday worth remembering. But this? This will be impossible to forget."

He pulled Dorian flush against him.

"Thank you, _**amatus**_. I…" he trailed off, and then with a soft chuckle he drew him into a kiss. When they parted, he said:

"I could imagine no one else at my side."

Dorian caressed his cheek, "Happy birthday, _**amatus**_."


	47. Denerim

Onyx stormed ahead as the world opened up before him.

His rider had difficulty controlling him. The horse charged forward and leapt over fallen trees, and when the paths were clear and strewn with winter flowers he rushed along them, whinnying and shaking his ebon mane. Fabriel soon succumbed and embraced the freedom, and as he and Onyx went ahead the Inquisitor and his team trailed behind, content to watch them race through the fields that paved the road to Denerim.

Damien had chosen Dorian, Solas, the Iron Bull, Varric and Cole to accompany them, though Dorian had more or less chosen for him. The group were engaged in lively conversation for most of the trip, even on steep hills and treacherous cliffs. Clear skies welcomed them, and the air had a chill to it that seemed to spur their horses faster.

The fields soon morphed into small villages, and from those came larger towns and hamlets that watched them pass in awe. Fabriel's horse settled under the weight of their gaze. He fell into step beside Damien; the divine legends matched each other's pace, eager to reach Denerim and be that one step closer to the end of a long mission. The Dragon-Slayer glanced at his companion as they walked through the final town centre.

"It never grows less uncomfortable, does it?" he said. "These eyes on us. Their awe."

"The people idolise us."

"They do." He agreed, and Damien felt he had more to say on the matter. If he did, he did not share it. The Dragon-Slayer said little else, in fact, until the Dragon's Peak mountain crested over the horizon and the team were on the final hours of their journey.

"Denerim." He said, almost to himself. "A city without order. Be on your guard."

"You expect trouble?" Damien asked.

"It's Denerim. There's always trouble."

* * *

He had never forgotten the peculiar smell that floated just inside the city walls. The taverns and the inns crowded the entrance and the streets were made of packed dirt, as if no one had found time or coin enough to pave them. There was a constant flow of traffic, but people stopped and watched as the team dismounted their horses and familiarised themselves with the area. Fabriel could almost swear he smelt the Amaranthine ocean; it came as a memory, and immediately he could see Cadoc in his mind's eye, fighting back hordes of darkspawn with a sword painted black with blood.

He did not trust Onyx with the stable-hands. He was a thoroughbred Imperial Warmblood, an expensive and rare breed, but Dorian quietly assured him that no one would steal his mount. There were soldiers in full Inquisition regalia dotted here and there in the crowd, and more than one spy was hiding in plain sight. He reluctantly acquiesced and allowed a boy to take the reins from him.

"Damien," he said to the Inquisitor once the horses were squared away, "You and I will have to make a special stop while we're in the city."

"A special stop? Where?"

"This is the birthplace of Andraste. It wouldn't do for her Herald or the Vessel not to visit her Stone."

"Oh," he said, "I hadn't even thought of that."

The team started down the streets and weaved their way through the masses of people. Fabriel kept an eye on their purse strings; far too many urchins underfoot meant too much opportunity to cut them and become lost in the crowd.

"I made that mistake when I was here during the Blight," he told him. "I didn't have time to stop at the Stone, and for the next four years I was asked if I would consider a pilgrimage to right that wrong."

" _Four years_?"

"A faint irritant, but it adds up in the eyes of the public. We shall have to do it after we find the container, though. Andraste has waited a thousand years; she can wait a while more."

* * *

Josephine had sent word ahead, and the team had found and settled into their rooms at the Spoiled Princess. She had made certain to choose separate rooms for both Dorian and the Dragon-Slayer, though Fabriel had noticed they were beside one another.

The décor was sparse. Comfortable beds and large windows that overlooked the city, but not much else besides a single bedside table and, in Damien's case, a hearth. Fabriel spent the first hour inside in prayer, his hands clasped together and his eyes screwed shut against the sounds of Denerim's denizens.

"Maker, though I am but one, I have called in Your Name,/ And those who come to serve will know Your Glory./ I remembered for them./ They will see what can be gained,/ And though we are few against the wind, we are Yours."

He knelt in front of the window, bathed in frozen light, and watched over the den of activity that went on below him. The rider felt for a moment the entire city's weight settle into his bones, and the rush of memories – of corrupt faces and black blood – spurred his prayer on.

"Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs,/ The Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds."

He and Cadoc had never stayed in an inn. In truth, after reaching Denerim the pair were at the behest of the people, forced to defend from straggling darkspawn or comfort those who had lost loved ones to the Blight. Fabriel himself had had to put more than one person out of their misery, once the taint had started to take effect. After the Warden had arrived to defeat the archdemon Urthemiel, he and Cadoc were separated. The rider had moved on, as it stated in prayer, to embark on what would turn out to be a string of mercy killings across most of Ferelden. He had very few memories of that time that were not steeped in death, sickness, or despair.

There was a knock at his door. "Dragonboy? Inquisitor's called us all downstairs. We're heading out."

"I'll be right with you," he replied as he rose to his feet. Fabriel collected his new holsters and slipped them on his hips, twirling his blades in hand before he sheathed them. Their presence was anchoring. He remembered, but he would not lose himself to those memories. He was on a new path now.

With one more cursory glance around the room, Fabriel picked up his new potion bag and left to meet his team.


	48. Contained Curses

The shop was called ' **The Anvil's Curse** ' and sat in a secluded part of the market, flanked on either side by a tailor and a tavern. The windows were large and dismal and almost opaque with dust, and as the team approached their mages started to feel strange. Solas and Dorian looked at each other and nodded. Their guards were up.

"This is it." Fabriel said, peering at the window pane's cracked paint. "The owner claims to have the container we need. With luck, he won't know just how much it's worth."

"How much _is_ it worth?" Varric asked. The Dragon-Slayer did not take his eyes from the shop as he replied:

"Too much."

Damien went in first, with Fabriel following close behind. The rest of the team came in one-by-one, and the mages started to glance around the place as soon as they were inside. The décor seemed cramped, as though even without the Iron Bull the ceilings would be too low and the floorspace too little. There were swords and axes on the walls, shined to perfection, and a single counter with the shopkeeper at the helm, smiling with his brilliant white teeth on show. The Dragon-Slayer's brow furrowed.

"Gentleman," he greeted. "How can I be of service? A new set of armour, perhaps? Something more decorative than I have on display?"

"We're here as representatives of the Inquisition," said Damien. "We need a special container that you claim to have. The Beast Glass."

"Oh! My apologies, Lord Inquisitor, Dragon-Slayer, for not recognising you both sooner. Honoured as I am to have you and your esteemed company in my store, I'm afraid that that specific container has been purchased."

"Purchased?" Fabriel interjected. "By who?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss my more…sensitive items, sir. Rest assured that, if I had known the Inquisition were coming, I would have held it for you. Might you wish to view my other containers and see if they fit your needs?"

Dorian noticed something odd in his lover's expression. It was rigid and hard, and seemed shades of irritated he had never seen Fabriel wear before. The Dragon-Slayer threw up his hands and approached the small counter with a sigh.

"Very well," he said as he leaned over it. The shopkeeper bent down to search for something; they could hear a heavy box being pulled out of some compartment and dragged along the floor. Solas noticed Fabriel's hand slide down to his holsters.

The man rose up, "Here we are sir—"

It was all he could say before the rider grabbed his head and thrust a blade into his neck.

There was a strangled gargling noise as blood spurted across Fabriel's face. Damien almost recoiled at the determination in his eyes as he held that position for a moment, one hand clutched on the shopkeeper's head and another firmly around his pommel. Little streams of blood ran down his wrist. He soon relented and allowed the man to drop to the floor. He hit it with a dull _thud_.

"That was good," said Cole in a shaky voice.

"Why did you do that?!" the Inquisitor demanded as Fabriel wiped the blood from his blade.

"He doesn't own the shop."

The rider jumped over the counter and opened a small door hidden behind it. Solas saw the moment his face changed; from hard and determined to almost melancholic, as though he had seen a terrible thing. There was a wet red streak at his feet, which glided across the splintered floor and out of the team's sight.

"Dead." He said. "I had hoped he was just…held hostage." He shook his head, his eyes closed against whatever laid before him. "He knew we were coming. I'd sent word ahead. What a waste."

"I thought that guy was acting weird," the Iron Bull said, "Too clean. Not even a scrap of dirt on him, and this place is filthy. Plus, this is Ferelden, not Orlais. Who gives a crap if a weapon's decorative?"

"Dorian and I sensed something strange when we approached. A current of arcane energy. This man was a mage." Solas told them.

"Oh shit." Varric sighed. "He's not one of the Venatori's assholes, is he?"

"Let's see; killing the shopkeeper, posing as him, trying to throw us off the trail, weird magic-sensing – yeah, I'm going to bet they're involved."

Fabriel hesitated for a moment. Then, with renewed purpose, he strode towards the corpse and started to search through his pockets, shirt, the boots he wore that were _definitely_ Tevinter in style. When he looked up from his fruitless hunt, he saw a large bag tucked underneath the counter.

"Maker," he murmured quietly, pulling it out to open it, "Be my guide."

Damien peered over the counter-top to see what he was doing. Fabriel's head blocked his view, but he watched his hands tear something open, and a mountain of tissue being thrown onto the floor.

Then he heard a soft sigh of relief.

"Thank the Maker." The Dragon-Slayer said. "It's here."

"Have you found the container?"

Fabriel rose up from his kneel, an odd glass vial in hand. It was shaped as a dragon's head, but the horns were long and curled until the tips were near the creature's snout. The eyes were set in far, and the fangs seemed larger than the lower half of its jaw. The rider turned it over to inspect it.

"It's intact. Not even a single scratch."

"Whoever this man was, he wanted it just as much as we do." Solas pointed out. "We should consider the idea that there might be a spy in the Inquisition. Venatori or otherwise, a group who knows about the operation and are willing to go through such lengths to take what we need is a threat."

"I'll send a raven to Leliana. We'll need to alert someone to what's happened here. The merchant's family should be informed."

"How do we hide that?" Dorian asked. Fabriel opened the potions bag he had draped over his shoulder and slipped it inside, taking care to ensure it was firmly in place before he closed the lid again. He moved as though it would fracture at any moment.

"I imagine Vivienne would be thrilled to know she's this useful, even without being here." He said. "Let's go. There's nothing more here."

The rider walked out from behind the counter and went towards the door, quickly joined by Dorian. The team could only take one more glance at the shop – the agent laying in his pool of blood, the weapons that would never be sold – and hurried after them.


	49. The Lair of Hope

He read the words of Evelyn to anchor himself.

 _In these cold and hopeless places, we feel His light, and are reminded of our purpose. If we do not feel Him, we are at the edge of an abyss that threatens the world – and He will return, as He has promised us, when we save His children, when we shape reality to fit His image. We are Vessels, His tools, His creation to protect creation. It is not an easy life, but it is ours. We are not meant to question, but as humans we are flawed and commit sins by nature._

 _Reach out and touch whatever is near. Remind yourself that you are but mortal bestowed divine responsibility. We shall fall, as all are doomed to. But we shall fall with His blessing, and we shall be at His side for our service to Him. Cleanse yourself of pride. It is folly. Cleanse yourself of hate. It is a distraction. Cleanse yourself of justice. It is impossible. Be a humble servant, and in the next life we are rewarded._

 _I shall wait for you, brothers and sisters of the faith, when I journey to the Maker's side. We are of living flesh, our souls tied up, and though ages divide us we are united. I am your sister. I am watching over you._

His room in the inn was cold. Rain had started to fall, and the muffled sounds of Denerim at night were almost a comfort as he knelt on the floor. The book sat open in front of him. Its faded pages were a calming sight. He poured over Evelyn's pious wisdom, her solemnity in the face of burden, and wondered if – had he met her in the flesh – he would have considered her a mother-figure.

The moon crawled across the sky. An owl hooted outside of his window, jarring him from his reverie, and the rider's soft sigh fell flat and dead in the air. He rose from his kneel and set the book back inside his bag. As he settled into bed, Fabriel regretted telling Dorian that he needed time alone. He wanted him at his side, an anchoring weight to reality, but he did not want to disturb him from his rest. Instead, he closed his eyes and waited to fall into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The Fade made harsh noises.

Fabriel wandered alone, at least for a time. He could see in the distance that terrible Black City, the site of the Maker's ire, and every now and then spirits of different colours would appear and disappear at will, watching him as he made his slow way across uneven stones.

"Fabriel."

Solas caught up to him while he was walking between two enormous, half-sculpted monoliths. The rider acknowledged him with a brief nod.

"This isn't a very pretty place to wander."

"Is the Fade ever pretty?"

"Yes. There are lairs of powerful spirits shaped to resemble the waking world, both horrific in their reimagining and beautiful prevailing love letters to a reality they cannot understand."

Solas gestured for him to follow.

"Come, my son. I will show you."

* * *

The place his father had taken him to was stunning. There were waterfalls that flowed with jewels – rubies, diamonds, sapphires and emeralds – and far-stretching meadows strewn with flowers of all shades, underneath that multicoloured sky that sparked with arcane energy. In the distance he could see enormous buildings rising out of the ground, adorned with Chantry symbols and other heraldry.

"This is…" he started, but trailed off. He could not find the words for it.

"This is a spirit of Hope's lair," Solas told him. "A rare sight, and one not even dreamers see often. Perhaps he will even show himself to us."

"Have you ever met this spirit?" he asked. Fabriel paused to admire the waterfall, which seemed to fall off into an abyss of fading red and yellow light.

"Once. I doubt there's much about me that interests him. But you – the Vessel of the people, their protector against darkness? That could encourage him."

Solas stood beside him to admire the jewels. His father watched as the Dragon-Slayer looked around, not certain where to focus himself, and inevitably settled for the Chantry in the distance.

"Hope." He said. "The Chantry hasn't held much hope in recent years."

"No. But what it represents has." The elf put a hand on his shoulder. "Come. Let us wander and see what else the spirit has raised here."

The pair went across the meadows towards the buildings. Fabriel focused for a moment on the flowers, the brilliant green grass that seemed just a shade too bright to be real. There were druffalo herds grazing not far from the waterfall; he noticed their horns were curled and their flanks unnatural colours, but their nature – peaceful, unhurried beasts – had not changed.

"It's my hope that, soon, you'll be able to shape worlds similar to this," the elf told him. "As a child you 'edited' details of worlds you didn't like. Statues became towers, cities became grassland."

"Did that not enrage the spirits?"

"It piqued the interest of demons," he admitted. "Many wanted to possess you – some even tried, though I was always with you when that happened. The more benevolent spirits were simply curious."

The pair started to climb a steep hill. Once they had crested the top, Fabriel paused to marvel at the lair. It seemed to carry on for miles, and for a moment he wondered how much energy it had taken to create; if at one time he could do the same, when he was a child without a care in the world. To imagine himself as the sculptor of such majesty was almost laughable.

"He hasn't shown himself," he noted to his father.

"No, but he is near. I can sense him. He may be cautious. Hope very rarely finds itself in the company of people."

"Does it never want to cross the Veil?"

"There's very little there that draws it."

The rider shook his head. Solas waited for a beat before he ventured:

"The shopkeeper's death was not your fault, vhenan."

"I sent word." He replied. "What if someone had intercepted it? What if the group that wanted to vial only knew it existed because of my letter?"

"He was in possession of a powerful artefact, whether or not he was aware of it. It was a matter of time, and it simply coincided with our search. We should be thankful that we found the vial before it was stolen."

Fabriel rolled his shoulders, "I suppose."

There was a spark of energy in front of them. A small, purple pool of light seemed to ooze out from the ground, and Solas smiled as he started to make his way towards it.

"Ah, excellent. Come, Fabriel," he said, "I can't wait to see what Hope might say to you."


	50. The People's Hope

Hope was an odd creature. He had imagined him to be optimistic, a spirit that found light even in the shadows, but the rider soon learnt that he was more interested in the world's imagining of hope than spreading it to the people. He had raised monuments, crafted a twisted yet beautiful reflection of the faithful's enduring fight against despair, and now it fell to Fabriel to speak with him as his father watched on.

The pair spoke of rites, rituals, all the ceremonies involved with the Chantry and how it was meant to translate into bolstered hope – the promise that dawn was on the horizon, even if the night seemed endless. Fabriel confirmed his own title, and Hope appeared almost to vibrate with excitement. His ever-fluid form shifted from one shape to another at rapid speed before he settled into a more natural state. Solas listened to his son's occasional slips into elvish, as if prolonged contact with the Fade had stitched his memories together, encouraged the language to come out from the recesses of his mind.

"Halam'shivanas," the rider explained to him. "It's a difficult journey, one I was set on as a child. It's been over twenty years now."

"Do you wish for more?" the spirit asked. He had sensed a longing in him, one that yearned for completion, as if a part – or several – had been stolen from him.

"I…have enough, for now."

"No more?"

Solas focused on his son's face. The Dragon-Slayer's expression was uncertain, but he felt himself almost safe in the spirit's presence. His shoulders eased and he spoke plainly, only semi-aware of his father's listening ears.

"I hope for Dorian's hand," he said. Solas' eyebrows rose and his reaction, though muted, was one of shock. "I doubt he would agree if I asked for it. I'm not fool enough to believe our paths are leading towards it, either. But in an ideal world, he and I would be able to have…more. To be together."

"Where do you believe this path leads you then, vhenan?" his father asked.

"If we indeed face a Great Dragon, as in all likelihood it appears we do, then I assume this will be my last battle." He replied. "This beast will kill me. My only hope is that I can strike a fatal blow before it does, and die knowing Thedas is safe."

Solas rose from his seat. "No. Death does not await you, my son. I would not allow it."

"Death doesn't heed our desires, Father. If my time has come, I won't shy from it. I trust Damien will find a suitable place for the blood to be stored, should I fall before a decision is made."

"I see you have your mother's penchant for fatalism. Don't fret. I and the others will not let you fall."

"I doubt the Inquisitor will be able to influence that."

"You underestimate him, and the power of numbers. You are not one lone man facing the evils of the world now, Fabriel. Damien commands a legion, at least for the time being. As long as I am at your side, no harm will come to you. No more than usual, at least."

Hope seemed then to take more of an interest in Solas. The spirit turned and said something to him in elven, and quickly the elf replied, as if fearful of what his son might overhear. Fabriel's brow furrowed.

"What did he say to you?" he asked.

"It's no matter, vhenan," he answered. "It's time you rested. This was…encouraging to see."

"Encouraging?"

"He hopes for you," said the spirit, "That you achieve your destiny. But that's not your hope. We can discuss it more, perhaps?"

Solas frowned, "No. That's enough for tonight. Come, Fabriel. I will take you to a safe place, where you can sleep."

"Am I not already asleep?"

"I fear after this, you may wake up more tired than you were before. Come."

Solas said farewell to the spirit, who nodded his head and allowed him to pass. Fabriel paused and said:

"Goodnight, Hope."

"Dareth shiral, da'len Fen." He replied.

* * *

Their return to Skyhold was heralded by a rainstorm, and as the team quickly retrieved their things Fabriel sheltered Dorian from the torrent, urging him to hurry. By the time they were inside, the rider was soaked through; and Dorian, for all of his efforts, was sodden.

"A noble effort," the mage laughed. "We should change before we meet with the advisors. Don't want to drip on Josephine's new carpets now, do we?"

Fabriel took the vial from the bag. It felt heavy, as though a thousand promises weighed down on it. He was almost anxious that the glass would shatter before his eyes.

"I need to find a place for this," he said. "It needs somewhere safe, somewhere secure. Perhaps a…" he trailed off and fell quiet. There was no place he could store it that would ever feel safe from people's thievery.

"That sounds like a job for another time." Dorian gestured towards the door that led to the garden. "Let's find some dry clothes. I'd rather not we freeze to death in the middle of the hall."

The rider acquiesced.

* * *

The fire was warm, and soon so was the tower. Fabriel put on a warm shirt and dry trousers, and slipped his holsters over them for a sense of comfort. The jewelled hilts reminded him of simpler times.

"We should consider ourselves working to outpace what's left of the Venatori," he said to Dorian as the mage changed his clothes.

"We don't know for certain if they're involved."

"There's enough evidence to warrant concern. I'd rather we were prepared than hope for the best."

"We have the Beast Glass, at least. That's half of the battle."

"Now we just have to be certain that no one steals it from us." Fabriel tied a small string around the horns and draped it over his neck. It immediately weighed down on his shoulders, and he let out a small sigh as it dangled between his Chantry necklace and Free Marches amulet. "Come. We should see the advisors before the day is out."


	51. Little Secrets

"If the Venatori are involved, we must secure that site," said Cullen to the Herald at the war table, "With your permission, I can send soldiers and fortify the area. We've enough men on hand not to leave ourselves defenceless in the meantime."

"Have it done, Cullen. I want our researchers protected."

"First and foremost, the cave needs to be defended from infiltrators," Fabriel pointed out. "We cannot lose that entrance."

"Our options need not be mutually exclusive, Dragon-Slayer. I can send lookouts to watch for anything suspicious. If we have advanced warning, our defences will be able to rebuff any assaults, and we would save both the outpost and the people stationed there."

"The Beast Glass should be our top priority," argued Josephine. "Without it, the Venatori can do nothing. I can discreetly contact some merchants in Val Royeaux and have a safe delivered for it."

"It can be stored in my quarters. Unless Sera has some 'pranks' planned for me, it should be safe there." Cullen told them. Fabriel was not certain he was comfortable with the idea – he wanted the vial as secure as possible, even if it meant he had to bear the burden himself – but Dorian squeezed his arm in a soothing way and he decided not to voice his concern. The commander was a capable man, and perhaps it would help distance him from the mission.

"Good. Then we have a plan. Fabriel can keep the vial with him until Josephine has a safe installed in Cullen's room. Leliana, ten of your fastest spies should be enough to cover Cullen's soldiers and warn them of any danger."

"I'll arrange it now," she said, and with a short bow the spymistress exited the room.

"Dorian and I are going to read some of those files Lady Montilyet received from the archives," the Dragon-Slayer said. "If there are any problems, we'll be in the rotunda."

The pair left as soon as Damien allowed.

* * *

Fabriel had spent hours on those notes, and could find not one that spoke of the research site. The more he read, the firmer his conclusion became – that the site was funded by a magister, one that for whatever reason had had enough interest in dragons to invest a large amount of coin in their study.

Dorian had since retired, and though he had promised he would join soon Fabriel had not yet followed him to the tower. The light of the braziers was soft and lulled him on occasion, but as he shoved file after file aside his concern started to mount. He calmed himself with thoughts of Dorian, that he would figure out who the magister in question was and if his family had some idea of what he was up to.

"Vhenan."

His father's voice made him start. He quickly settled as Solas approached.

"Have you discovered anything of use?"

"No," he replied, "though I didn't expect to. It all seems to point to an independent study. Dorian has started to narrow down a list of families he believes the magister behind it could have belonged to."

"The Imperium hides its secrets well," the elf noted as he sat across from him. He saw the concern written across his son's face, and saw that vial hanging from his neck. It reminded him of a noose.

"It does. But Dorian knows how to uncover them. I trust him to find out."

He rubbed his eyes to urge the sleep from them.

"What did you need, Father?"

"I had hoped you would be asleep," he said as he produced an envelope from his pocket. "Josephine received this today. It's addressed to you, from Tevinter."

Fabriel paused and looked up from his research. The envelope was sealed, but the wax did not have an insignia – a mark of secrecy, and one that he dreaded. As he took it from his father, the rider felt a slight jolt in his heart.

"Ah." He said. "I…expected this."

"What is it?"

"I…can't tell you. Not right now."

Solas seemed as though he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. Instead he rose to his feet and went towards the rotunda door.

"Very well, vhenan," he said. "If you change your mind, come and find me at the Herald's Rest."

With that, he left the room. Fabriel sat in silence for a moment before he collected up the letter and quickly departed for his tower.

* * *

Dorian awoke to the smell of the fire and the sound of glass clinking. As he blinked the sleep from his eyes, the mage stood up and draped a gown around himself before hurrying down the stairs.

He found Fabriel there, sitting on his chair as he stared into the fire. He had a glass of wine with him, and a half-empty bottle stood near his foot, the cork left next to it as though forgotten.

"A little late to open a new bottle, but I can get onboard," he said as he came to sit beside him. His lover made a little noise of acknowledgement. "Is something wrong, _**amatus**_?"

"I received a letter," he replied. "It's no matter. I expected it. Right now, I just want to drink and forget." He reached down and offered the bottle to Dorian. "Join me?"

The mage accepted. He poured it into a spare glass Fabriel had left on a shelf nearby, and as he settled back into his chair he tried not to prod him, leaving the air silent and empty until he was ready to speak. For a while, the only sound was that of flame crackling and their drinking.

"We should talk about the future." Fabriel soon said. It caught Dorian off-guard, but before he could respond his lover went on, "Not now. Not with this around my neck. But soon."

"What's spurred this on?" he asked.

"There's much of this mission that we still don't know, and far too much that can go wrong. I felt a conversation about what we expect from each other should I survive would be a good idea."

"'Should you survive?'"

"Let's not discuss it now," he said. "Let's just…forget."

After some hesitation from Dorian, the pair drank.


	52. By Writ

Dorian felt that his lover had spent far too much time in the rotunda. Their investigation into the Imperium's most prominent and ancient families had progressed well, but even that seemed not to lift his spirits or soothe his frayed nerves. On occasion he would catch him deep in thought, and he thought he saw the end written in the lines of his forehead.

A storm had blown in soon after their return. The outpost was all but drowned, and the researchers had been forced to store their more delicate equipment in the cave itself. The soldiers were on a mission to build rudimentary shelters, their materials sent and provided by Josephine, while their lookouts attempted to battle through the sudden low visibility. Each shred of news that Fabriel heard seemed to draw his expression a touch more grim. Dorian feared that, if not for himself, his lover would have withdrawn further and further into his studies, until he found himself in the pit on an obsession.

"Oh, I forgot to warn you," Dorian said while he and the rider sat in the library, "A dowager from Orlais is visiting Skyhold, keeps saying she wants to introduce you to her daughter. I told her you'd taken a vow of celibacy."

Fabriel's smile was small but genuine. "Has she not heard the rumours?"

"I hope not. Asking me where you are doesn't seem so malicious then."

The Dragon-Slayer chuckled and returned to his notes. Dorian had narrowed down the list to three potential families, and provided reasons for his suspicion; ancient ties to Old God priests; presence of family members that were confirmed Venatori; and even examples of their assumed blood magic practice. It was enough to start examining their accessible records. He was at once eager and apprehensive to learn the truth behind the research site. Dorian noticed the two emotions at war on his face.

"Fabriel," he said after a beat. The mage leaned closer to him, as though eager to avoid listening ears. It caught his lover's attention. "I…About the future."

The rider paused, and soon set down his notes to turn fully to his lover.

"I plan on returning to Tevinter, once this is all said and done. My homeland won't change until people like me start to demand it. I'm…not certain where that will leave us."

"Where do you want it to leave us?" he asked. There was a pause as Dorian thought.

"I'd like what we have to continue, if that's what you want. I wouldn't be any less dedicated to you in the Imperium than I would here. But the distance could prove difficult, especially since our work will often have us called away."

Fabriel's mouth seemed unnaturally still as he stared at his lover. His eyes were carefully blank, and for a moment Dorian wondered if he had somehow offended him. Then he dived into his pocket and produced a small, crumpled note, which he offered to the mage.

"Perhaps we won't be so distant, Dorian."

The mage took the note from him, bewildered and uncertain. Once he opened it and read what was inside, he was only more confused.

"A deed?" he said. Fabriel nodded.

"To land in Minrathous."

"Where did you get this?"

Fabriel paused. There was a moment in which Dorian thought he would not answer, but then the rider sighed and leaned closer in.

"That letter I received," he told him, "The one I wouldn't discuss. It was from Tevinter."

"You contacted the Imperium?"

"I wrote to the Herathinos family." He said, and was met by a shocked silence. "With all that's happening, I felt it necessary."

"Why?"

"I wanted…answers, I suppose. I wanted to know if any of them regretted what happened to my mother, what they did to her. I didn't get that. Mother's parents – my grandparents – have extended an invitation to their home, and offered me lands in exchange for my silence."

Dorian did not know how to react – not immediately. Fabriel's face did not reveal much emotion, and he felt as if, were he to say the wrong thing, he would close himself off entirely. But as his lover stared at him, he realised he was waiting for him to speak.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly. The rider shook his head.

"No, not really," he said. "I expected—well, I don't know what I expected. I'm not even sure why I felt such a need for them to be sorry. But these lands provide me with an opportunity."

Fabriel rested his hand over his lover's and sighed.

"After the dragon is dead," he said, "assuming, of course, that I live, I want to retire from service."

"Retire?" Dorian replied, and his voice was gentle, almost disbelieving. "That will be quite a controversial decision, Fabriel. People look to you for support in desperate times."

"The Chantry is led by a new Divine, one who is more able to attend their needs, protect them where it's necessary. My necessity will soon be at its end. I've given enough."

He kissed Dorian's forehead, and the mage thought he could hear a quiet sigh on his lips.

"I love you, Dorian," he said. "Once this is over, I want to retire to Tevinter – with you."

There was quiet. Dorian could feel the hammer of his heart, heard the blood beating in his ears as he stared at the Dragon-Slayer, his expression one of shock and disbelief. He had thought about their future quietly to himself at times; but he had never thought that Fabriel would relinquish his position, even if he had no love for it, and quit the south for his mother's homeland. The very idea was almost blasphemous. He found himself releasing his hand from Fabriel's grip, and with a slow shake of his head he stammered:

"N-no, I don't want that."

Before his lover could react, the mage stood and hurriedly left the room. Fabriel was left to watch after him, confused and hurt, as he disappeared out of his sight.


	53. Teach me How to Be

Solas found his son in the rotunda late that night, deep in his cups and focused hard on his research. He was surprised he was even coherent with the number of empty bottles around him. When he approached, the rider looked up – and immediately he seemed irritable, his mouth a hard scowl and his brows stitched together. For a moment, the dense shadows cast out by the firelight appeared to grow and deepen.

"My son," he greeted.

"Father." The tone of Fabriel's voice told him he was in no mood for talk.

"I see you've wasted no time in acquainting yourself with the Inquisitor's reserves."

"I've full access to 'whatever I need' for my work. Tonight, I needed this."

"All of it?"

The rider rolled his eyes and set his bottle down, "Enough, Father. I'm not a child in need of scolding."

"No. But this is a poor example of maturity."

"Enough!" he commanded. Solas' face softened and his voice grew gentle as he spoke.

"Forgive me, ma vhenan. It pains me to see you this way."

Fabriel leaned forward in his chair and looked at his father. His lips were thin and his eyes difficult to read. After a moment of pregnant silence, the rider stood and picked his bottle up from the table.

"Do you know when I had my first drink?" he asked as he walked to the other side of the desk. His pace was steady, almost relaxed, and Solas wondered if it was the alcohol or apathy.

"No," he replied.

"It was on a ship to the Free Marches. We were sailing to Kirkwall and the waters were rough. The captain opened a case of Butterbile 7:84 to help the men sleep. I was twelve years old, surrounded by sailors I would never see again, the day I became a man." He leant against the desk, taking another swig of ale. He paused to swallow before he continued, but his eyes never left the elf's face. "It's not right. A boy's first drink should be shared with his father."

Fabriel offered Solas the end of the bottle.

"It's not my first," he said, "but it's still important."

Solas hesitated, but accepted the offer. He took a long draught of ale that burned the back of his throat. As he did, Fabriel picked up a new bottle and opened it with practiced ease. He drained around half of it while his father watched on, uncertain if he should speak or simply offer a sympathetic ear.

"I sense you're upset. Has something happened, Fabriel?" he asked. The rider laughed, but it was a bitter, short exhale of the nose, his smile never reaching his eyes.

"Love," he replied, "Love happened. It's a curse."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Fabriel put the ale to his lips and drew. "There's nothing to discuss. I'd rather just sit here and share a drink with my father."

The elf smiled and started to settle himself on the sofa at the side of the room. He rested his bottle on one knee and his hand on the other, and looked at his son leaning on the desk.

"Very well," he said. "Then perhaps you could sate my curiosity about something. I heard a story from Blackwall about a cult you came across in the Exalted Plains. He claimed that you believe one of their artefacts was elven in origin. Could you tell me more?"

"Gladly. That thing almost killed me."

Fabriel sat beside his father and explained what he knew of the artefact – a queer staff that had seemed to beat with a pulse of its own, and radiated a chaotic energy that had more than once exploded in his presence. The leader of the cult, a woman who fashioned herself an elven priestess with some sort of connection to the ancient Evanuris, had used it as a prop to ensure obedience from her flock; and the rider had uncovered that, not only was she not Dalish as she had claimed, but that she had no idea how to use the staff. He had elected to remove it from her possession. In the aftermath of the leader's assault to protect the artefact, and the deaths of both herself and her most loyal followers, it had been lost.

"I tried to recover it," he told him. "I searched the rubble for days, but I never found it. Perhaps it was crushed when the building collapsed. I burnt the site, just in case. The cult was put to rest, and whatever remained was destroyed in the fire."

"I doubt the artefact was destroyed if it was as powerful as you suggest, vhenan. We would do well to take a journey there and see if we can find it. It sounds truly fascinating."

"Perhaps after we're done with the mission," Fabriel said. Solas noticed his eyes seemed to darken. "I have no other plans, after all."

The elf feigned surprise. "None at all? Not even with Dorian?"

"Dorian doesn't want what I do."

"Surprising, given your relationship. What do you want?"

"To retire from the Maker's service," he replied and took another draw, "To establish myself permanently in Tevinter, as far from the Chantry's eye as possible."

Solas' heart skipped a beat when he heard him say 'Tevinter'. He immediately wanted to dissuade him, to convince him that the Imperium held no future for him – but he caught himself before he did, and simply replied:

"And I suspect Dorian had objections?"

"Apparently so." Fabriel leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his ale still clasped in hand and his eyes staring out at the shadows around them. "I don't understand. He claims to want to stay together, to be with me even after the Inquisition ends. But he doesn't want me to move with him. He wants us to have this great distance between us – entire oceans separating me from him. Either he's lying about wanting us to remain a couple, or there's more at play here than I can see."

"Perhaps he worries for you. The Imperium could prove dangerous for you long-term, especially if involved with a magister. The scandal alone could impede Dorian's ability to reform his homeland. Ah, but I digress. It's clearly upset you, whatever the case. It will resolve itself in time."

He waited for Fabriel's response, but found the man silent. The Dragon-Slayer's despondency had returned, and in an attempt to dispel it Solas leaned forward and gave his son's shoulder a comforting squeeze.

"Tevinter isn't where you will realise who you are, what you will become," he said. "There is still so much for you to learn. I cannot wait to show you."

"I want to be in Tevinter. I want to feel closer to my mother. I miss her."

Fabriel's voice was quiet – not so much that Solas thought he was upset, but rather dejected. Solas rubbed his shoulder sympathetically, and it seemed to prompt more from him.

"I don't even remember her face. It's all so blurred, like a picture underwater. Her smile, her laugh, her scolding – it's all lost to me. I just wish I could see her again, one more time."

The elf paused. His son's hurt was almost tangible, and for a moment he saw him as that little boy he had journeyed with through the Fade, so naïve and vulnerable, needing protection even if he did not realise it. He stood suddenly and to the surprise of Fabriel, and gestured for him to do the same.

"Come with me," he said, "I want to show you something."

The rider protested, "But our bottles—"

"Leave them!" his father called. "The servants will tend to it. Come, this is worth the effort."

Solas did not leave him much room for argument, and when he stepped outside of the door Fabriel snapped out of his confusion and hurried to follow.

* * *

"Father, why are we here?"

"This place contains strong memories. It's drawn spirits before – I'm hopeful it will do it again."

The pair walked in the Fade, in a peculiar village that Fabriel was certain he had seen once before. The buildings were made of bent and twisted wood and the doors opened not outwards, but upwards, like the yawning mouth of some creature. Windows were at angles and the forest that surrounded it seemed to hum with energy. He felt the ground underfoot to be hard as ice, but when he looked he saw it moulded to the bottom of his boot much as mud would.

There was a house that sat high up above the rest, built on a rounded platform with an uneven and cracked stone staircase curving around it. It was towards this that Solas wandered, and despite his hesitation the rider followed. As they ascended the stairs, his father smiled.

"Ah, I can sense them now," he said, "Compassion and Wisdom. An odd coupling, but this place has seen its fair share of oddities."

"What _is_ this place?" Fabriel asked.

"This is your home, vhenan," he explained, "or at least how the Fade represents it. It means much to you, and yours is a tale that attracts spirits of all kinds."

"We've come to speak to them, then."

"No, not this time. We are here to watch them."

The pair came to the door of the house. Solas reached forward and clutched the handle, shaped as a dragon with malevolent crystal eyes.

"Insulting," the rider noted.

"It's not meant to be," his father told him. "The spirits reflect what they see. Dragons are a large part of who you are. Now, hush, my son. We must be quiet if we're to watch."

He entered. Fabriel paused for a moment outside, marvelling at the scene – the crude representation of his homeland, the little village where his legend had begun. It was beautiful.

He soon had his fill of the sight, and hurried to join his father's side.

* * *

It was not his home as he remembered – at least, not exactly. The small rounded living room had not had tilted windows, and his father's wall adornments had never moved and blinked. But the very sight of it brought memories flooding to his mind. He suddenly remembered the smell of his mother's hair as she comforted him – jasmine mixed with elderflower – and the sound of her lullabies at night, almost ethereal in their softness. Solas watched as he wandered the room, draped in a heavy silence. He touched this thing and that, and a small, sad smile appeared and disappeared on his face as he went.

"I see no spirits," he pointed out.

"They are here," he assured, "Patience, Fabriel. All will be clear in a moment."

Fabriel continued to occupy himself with his childhood home to pass the time. Soon, he felt that strange thrum of the arcane in the air, and quickly he returned to his father before the room started to almost glow with energy.

The pair watched the scene in front of them quietly, Solas' eyes calm and collected while Fabriel's held a note of trepidation. A green mist rose up, engulfing the furniture for but a moment, before it receded to reveal one of those ever-in-flux figures in the shape of a woman. A familiar woman. Fabriel's eyes widened as her features became sharper, as if forming from the very deepest depths of his memories.

"Mother…"

"Hush, Fabriel," his father whispered, "Remember, this is just a reflection, a warped mirror into the past. Don't disturb it."

The rider settled to the best of his abilities. The spirit was cradling something in her arms, murmuring Tevene whispers, until a door beside her opened to reveal another – a compassion spirit, taking the form of a child. He saw his unruly locks and broad shoulders, and recognised immediately whose shape it had taken.

"Fabriel," said the mother, "Come here, my son. Your brother wants to see you."

"I'd forgotten her voice…"

The spirit hurried to her side with all the carefree joviality of a real boy. He leaned in, his smile was wide and bright, his actions rushed and eager. The mother-spirit seemed thrilled to have him so close to her.

"Ah, my boy," the mother told him as she cupped his face. "There's so much for you two to see in this world, so much for you to learn and explore. I can't wait to see who you grow up to be. It's going to be wonderful."

Fabriel closed his eyes and lowered his head. Tears threatened to wet his cheeks, and he sighed in a choked voice:

"I'm sorry, Mother."

* * *

By the time Solas and Fabriel had left the house, the rider was in an odd mood and acted strangely. As he and his father descended into that twisted village, he paused to lean against one of the houses. Solas stopped when he noticed he was no longer following him.

"Fabriel?" he asked, his voice concerned. "Is something wrong?" The rider shook his head.

"That was…a lot to remember."

"I apologise, vhenan. Perhaps I should have been more restrained."

"No, it's…" he trailed off. Fabriel looked out at his village and, for the briefest of moments, he could see all of his old neighbours and friends; the children he had played with, unaware that in a few short years they would die and he would be heralded a hero. He felt the weight of their deaths like one crushing blow from a maul.

"You do this often, don't you?" the Dragon-Slayer asked. When Solas tilted his head, he explained, "Talk to spirits. See memories."

"I do. It's my main area of study."

"And you taught yourself this?"

"Yes, I did."

His nod was small and almost imperceptible. Fabriel continued to be silent for a moment, but Solas could see that he was deep in thought. Then, suddenly, he straightened and caught his father's arm – not aggressively, but with purpose.

"Teach me." He said. His words came as a shock, and the elf could not quite process them before his mouth reacted.

"What?"

"Teach me," he repeated. "Show me how to do what you do. I'm ready to embrace whatever this is. Whatever I can do, I want to."

Solas stared at him for a beat, and then finally his words registered and his mouth stretched into a smile. His joy was apparent when he replied:

"I will teach you everything I know, vhenan. Welcome to the first step of your destiny."


	54. These Ways are Mine

Leliana had noticed how inseparable Solas and the Dragon-Slayer had become.

She was aware, of course, that Fabriel was his son, and knew a little of the situation from Solas himself; but the sudden change concerned her. The rider was often at his side, if not with Dorian for research, and she noted that now there seemed to be an air of tension around the lovers. Their conversation was stilted, limited to only the studies, and Fabriel appeared to avoid topics that would lead to longer discussions. She monitored the situation for four days before she decided to approach the mage and investigate.

Leliana came to the library in the afternoon, after she had heard the Dragon-Slayer depart. Dorian was still there and pouring himself some brandy, his notes open on a page about a particular family in Tevinter with strong links to the Venatori. He was so invested in his drink that he did not even notice her approach.

"Dorian," she said, to which he looked up and sighed.

"Can whatever it is wait?" he asked. "I'm busy, getting drunk."

"I just need some information. I won't keep you long."

"That's what you say. Before you know it, it's the middle of the night and I'm still answering pointed questions."

Leliana fixed him with a level stare, and Dorian sighed in relent.

"Fine, fine. I suppose it's nothing you wouldn't find out anyway. What is it? Something about the mission?"

"I've noticed that the Dragon-Slayer is spending an inordinate amount of time with Solas as of late."

She noticed his defences rise as soon as his lover's name left her mouth.

"I've no idea what's happened there," he told her. "Fabriel and I don't exactly discuss personal matters right now."

"A lover's quarrel?"

"To some effect." He could tell that the answer did not satisfy her, but he would elaborate no more. The thought of their argument pained him, and he wished he had explained _why_ he did not want Fabriel to join him – why he thought Tevinter would hold no future for them. But hindsight, as ever, would do him no favours. He could only hope that his lover's anger would soon subside and they could discuss the matter again, once he had time to think on his response.

"I hope you understand my concern, Dorian," she said, "Solas is a dear friend of the Inquisitor, but his sudden disappearance created questions he has so far declined to answer. I cannot afford to be as trusting as Damien – not while the Inquisition is still needed to repair the damage the war with Corypheus caused."

"I do, though I doubt there's any need to concern yourself about Fabriel. He's risked his life for this mission. He's dedicated – and he's not so easily swayed."

"I see." She said. Leliana knew that, were she to pry further, she would find no more information; at least not information she could use to soothe her concerns. The spymistress eyed him for a moment, weighing up whether or not he was feigning ignorance, before she accepted that he truly had no clue what had caused Fabriel's sudden closeness with his father.

"Is that all?" he asked. There was a beat, and then she nodded.

"I apologise for disturbing your evening, Dorian," she told him. "I won't keep you any longer. But if anything comes to mind regarding the situation, do let me know as soon as you can."

She left for the rookery, and left Dorian confused and anxious. In truth, he was also perplexed in Fabriel's change of heart, and if not for their current predicament he would have asked him about it himself. He needed to resolve the issue, and soon. He did not want Leliana's questions to lead to distrust over the rider's loyalty, or threaten his authority as the Vessel.

 _It never ends,_ he thought as he set his cup down.

* * *

Fabriel sat in his tower, where he was writing another entry in the Vessel's book to commemorate a new leap in their investigation.

 _The family of the magister behind the Great Dragon research has been found. Dorian is certain that the Erimonds – the family behind the late Livius, servant of Corypheus and the corruptor of the Grey Wardens – are at least aware of the study, as large sums of wealth went into it and the shame of failure would have rippled down to his descendants enough for them to conceal the truth._

 _We have not yet found out who specifically ordered the research, and perhaps at this point it no longer matters. He was a fool of a thousand years ago, bound to the worship of false Gods. But he might have found something of use – something before the operation's collapse that could help us in our battle. It's worth further investigation, even if we have to pry the information from the Erimonds' cold, dead hands._

 _Forgive me for my morbidity. The situation with Dorian has upset me more than it should have, perhaps. Father has taken my mind from it somewhat with new ventures, but I find myself brooding on our argument – or lack thereof. Like Rosaline, I wish to remove myself from this life of service, to have paid my dues to the Maker and seek a new way, a new identity. But perhaps that dream is folly. If my father would tell me what his vision for my future is – what this 'destiny' he keeps talking about truly means – I could envision myself in it, see whether or not it's right for me. For him to keep it a secret is…disconcerting._

 _Ah, I digress. The Erimond family are not quite disgraced, though Dorian says they are shunned and have been all but blocked from the most prestigious of parties. Lady Montilyet is examining our options now. Livius' execution complicates matters, as far as I'm aware, but she is toying with the idea of offering them a public meeting with the Inquisitor in an attempt to win them back some modicum of respect, and in return we only ask them to provide us with details of the research site. I've been told that Sera is vehemently against this idea. If we choose it, Damien will have to make some amends with her; and as he tells it, that will require a great deal of patience._

 _I can only pray this works. The end is drawing near. I feel it in my bones._


	55. Sculptor

He had no talent for painting, but his father had insisted. He had told him, "You've learnt much of your human heritage and little of your elven," and set him on a course to paint a fresco, providing him with materials and supplies enough to sate him for two winters. The elf had even cleared a small patch of the rotunda wall for him to do it on. Fabriel was oddly nervous as he peered at the masterworks around him, certain his would mar their beauty. Solas noticed this and guided him.

"Like this," he spoke gently, as if harsh words would deter him, and directed his hand up to paint a small line. "Painting is a discipline, and therefore must be practiced. I'm not expecting perfection, ma vhenan – there are no mistakes that can't be fixed."

"I'm not sure how this relates to my training, Father."

"It doesn't," he replied. "We have so little in common. Our years apart have left us almost strangers, and you uneducated in your heritage. Perhaps this will help to bridge that gap, in some small way."

Fabriel was not certain that he wanted to waste time on the arts, but Solas seemed eager to teach him; and, in truth, the pair had yet to build a rapport outside of their shared dreams. His first strokes were shaky and uneven, as if he were a child, and his father murmured soft words of encouragement as he went, urging him to paint to his own rhythm rather than rely on the examples around him. It was difficult. The frescos loomed over him as beacons of excellence, and he felt almost foolish in his attempts to ignore them. Once his picture started to take shape, Solas smiled.

"The Dales," he said. "A curious thing for you to paint, vhenan."

"It is?"

"The site of our people's last stand against the Exalted March. It's an important part of our history, even if it is painful to remember."

Fabriel dipped his brush, "You speak as though the elves would accept me as one of their own."

"Would they not? You are my son. Elven blood flows through your veins."

"But not elven alone, Father."

"Perhaps not." He conceded. "But have no fear. There's much you will offer our people, when the time comes."

"What do I have to offer them but my blades and my dreams?"

"Patience, vhenan. Like this painting, it will all become clear with time and practice. Do not distract yourself with thoughts of the future."

The rider nodded and returned to his painting. The Dales' shape was odd, no doubt, but still recognisable, and he took a strange pride in that. He recalled his time in the Grand Cathedral, when he would be tasked to sketch images of Andraste on parchment, or recreate famous masterpieces from memory when the sisters were needed elsewhere. Solas watched as he slipped into his thoughts, and noted how each stroke of the brush seemed to pull him further in.

"Fabriel," he said after a while, "May I ask you something?"

The rider looked at him with his eyebrow raised.

"I've been searching for a way to ask this for some time now. It's been so long, perhaps you don't even remember the answer."

"What is it, Father?"

Solas took a small intake of breath to steady himself. "Before your seventh birthday, we used to meet each other in the Fade every time you slept. Then, suddenly, you stopped visiting me. It was all I could do to catch glimpses of you in the distance. I just…Do you remember why? What caused you to suddenly refuse to see me?"

Fabriel thought back to that time. The images were unclear, but he recalled snippets of a conversation he had had with his father, and in an instant he felt afraid – and then, as if the Maker had snapped his fingers, the entire memory opened up before him as if it had been but a moment past.

"My father told me to." He said. Solas' brow furrowed and he questioned:

"What do you mean?"

"I told him about my dreams. I thought he would be excited to hear about the fantastical things I'd seen. He was…terrified. I had to ignore my dreams, he said, and ignore all those who spoke to me in them. They would lead me astray." Fabriel shook his head. "Perhaps he was concerned it was a sign of magic. Hoped that, if I ignored them, the signs would disappear and it would never develop."

Solas closed his eyes against the memories of his son's rejection, and felt a queer anger bubbling in his chest. That precious time he had with him in his sleep, stolen, because of another man's foolish fear.

"To shackle a child even in his dreams – what a terrible thing to do."

"He didn't want to have another person to hide from the Chantry. Little use it did in the end, but his intentions were good."

"Good intentions are not always enough, vhenan."

Before Fabriel could respond, the rotunda door opened and interrupted them. The messenger that stepped inside was dressed all in black, a hood drawn up over her head, and she spoke in a hushed, hurried tone.

"Master Solas, Master Dragon-Slayer," she said, "Lord Trevelyan has an urgent message for you."

"What is it?" asked Solas. He noted she held nothing in her hands; whatever Damien needed to tell them, it was too important to write down.

"Divine Victoria is travelling to Skyhold as we speak. She and her entourage should arrive by dawn."

"Cassandra is coming here? Why?"

"His Lordship didn't say, Master Solas," she told him.

"Urgent business, then," said Fabriel. He rolled his shoulders as though to ease some growing pain. "Has Commander Cullen put security measures in place?"

"He's tending to them now, Your Grace."

"Good. And Sister Nightingale?"

"I believe her people are watching the roads."

"Then there is no more we can do than wait." He turned and went to the desk where he had laid his research notes, collecting them up as his father watched in confusion.

"Leaving, vhenan?" he asked, to which the rider nodded.

"I need to prepare. If the Divine is coming, we'll be beholden to take prayer together. I must take the time I have to clear my thoughts, focus myself entirely on worship. If there's more news, send for me in my tower – I'll be meditating there."

Solas could say little more as his son turned and left the room.


	56. Her Return

Cassandra's carriage arrived at dawn, on the edge of a new ice-storm that threatened to unleash itself at any moment. Her chassis was rather more humble than the Divines before her – no golden symbols, no heavy purple curtains draped in the window – but the number of soldiers guarding it belied its true nature. A squire hurried to open her door and Cassandra, dressed in her uniform of red and white and religious insignias, stepped on to the cold stone below.

The Inquisitor met her in the courtyard. The old friends would have embraced, had her station allowed it. Instead, he nodded and smiled at her with a soft affection, offering a bow as a sign of respect for her new position.

"Your Worship," he said, to which she chuckled.

"Had you told me during the war that one day _you_ would be calling _me_ that, I would have laughed in your face," she said. "These have been strange times, old friend."

"It's certainly kept us on our toes," he agreed. Cassandra peered around him at his advisors, and spared them a sort of nostalgic smile as the trio curtsied and bowed. Their relationship was changed forever – but no matter her new divinity, the ex-Seeker would not forget the time she had spent at their side, fighting for the people of Thedas.

"Where is the Dragon-Slayer?" she asked when she noticed he was not with them. She had yet to meet the Vessel, and was eager to see whether or not he matched up to the lofty descriptions she had received from her oldest of acolytes; some of whom had had the pleasure of watching after him during his brief time in the Cathedral.

"He's in his tower, preparing himself for prayer, Your Grace," said Josephine. "Master Solas assures me he'll meet with us the moment he becomes available."

" _Solas_? He's returned? Where is he? When did he come back? Why is he here?"

"It's…a long story, Divine. Please, come with us to the war room and I can fill you in."

Cassandra picked up on the Inquisitor's eagerness to avoid listening ears and nodded. As her soldiers formed a protective shield around her, the Divine gestured for her friend to lead the way.

* * *

Fabriel knelt before his shrine, his incense burning and his hands clasped together in prayer. His eyes were closed and he wore his Chantry necklace, and as he murmured the words of the Chant he focused himself on his worship, on that familiar feeling of duty that welled up from the depths of his chest. There were far too many people to pray for. In light of Cassandra's arrival, he chose the poor and the helpless, the vulnerable peasants and the dying old.

There was a knock at his door, just as the world around him had started to fade. Fabriel furrowed his brow and tried to ignore it. It happened again. With a sigh, the rider unclasped his hands and rose to his feet.

He went downstairs and opened the door, and was surprised – and cautious – to find Dorian on the other side. The mage was bundled up in warm clothes; thick robes to ward off the growing chill, and his hands were buried in his pockets in an attempt to conserve heat.

"Can I come in?" he asked. "It's bloody freezing out here."

Fabriel pushed the door open wider and allowed him past, embracing the cold on his face and the frost in his lungs, before he closed it again. When he turned around, he saw Dorian standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, as though he were uncertain of himself. It was odd and out of character for him, and his lover found it almost distressing to see.

"You can sit down," he told him. The mage smiled to hide his discomfort and settled down in the chair nearest to him – one that sat around his table. It was not his usual spot, and he perched in it as if he expected to be on his feet again in a moment. "Has something happened?"

"Oh, no. Well, not beyond the usual. Divine Victoria's arrived and I thought I'd come see how you are before you're accosted."

"I'm fine," he said, "I'm just preparing for our prayer. It will be a long sermon."

"Yes, I smelt the incense when I came in." He shifted in his seat. "Right, well if all's fine—"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Fabriel's question caught him off-guard, and Dorian was silent as he tried to think of a response. His lover waited for him, his eyes steady and calm and his arms folded across his chest.

"I…didn't mean what I said," he told him, "At least, not the way I said it."

"I don't understand. You want to be together but apart."

"Believe me, _**amatus,**_ it will bring me no joy to leave your side. But you wouldn't be safe in the Imperium long-term. Even as a Vessel, you were sworn in by the southern Chantry. That's enough for some of my countrymen to consider you heretical."

"I've travelled to Tevinter before. I found no more threats than I would in the Anderfels or Rivain."

"No more _outward_ threats. It's not as if we enjoy airing our dirty laundry out in public, is it? We contain it – for all the good it's caused. Even I won't be wholly safe when I start making motions for reform. I just don't want you to follow me to your death, Fabriel. I couldn't live knowing my actions had put a target on your back."

"Shouldn't it be my decision?" he countered, to which Dorian shook his head.

"No," he said, "because if you died, it wouldn't be you living with the consequences."

The rider fell quiet for a moment, with no further argument to make and no sound reasoning to refute his lover's claim. Dorian saw his sudden silence, the way he lowered his gaze from him, and sighed.

"I love you," he said. "I don't want to see you hurt, or killed, by something that could have been prevented. So, yes, I want to be together – but for your own safety, I don't want you in Tevinter with me. I would rather have an ocean separating us than an arrow constantly hanging over our heads."

Fabriel did not respond for a long moment. The mage watched as his eyes flickered with emotions that never quite reached his face, his body rigid as if poised for attack.

"This is my mother's homeland." He finally stated, then another beat of silence. "Let me think on it, Dorian. There's a lot to consider. I need to make preparations for if I don't survive the mission, regardless."

His lover sighed. "Alright, Fabriel. You should go to the war room before Leliana sends someone. Perhaps we can meet afterwards."

"Perhaps."


	57. To Worship

The statues watched over them as Cassandra lit the candles for prayer. Fabriel had started his incense, concentrated on the flame from his match and the smell of jasmine, thoughts of worship stamping out those of Dorian and the future.

The pews behind them were full of people, all wide-eyed and silent, hushing restless children as the Vessel and the Divine prepared the altar. Worshippers watched in awe as Fabriel draped the Chantry beads around his neck and slid his daggers into their sheaths. In the back lingered Dorian, away from the public's disapproving eyes, and he watched in silence as his lover went through the ceremonial rites and rituals he had performed as a child; a cleanse of the world's ills. But where others saw reverence, he saw honour. Duty. Sacrifice. Each small flourish, each gesture was made with grave thought and concentration. As Cassandra took point at the front of the crowd, his Fabriel stood behind her, his hands folded behind his back and his expression severe. The altar was almost beautiful, decorated with the Chantry's insignias and the slight smoke of the incense.

"Friends," said Cassandra, to which all ambient noise died. Even Dorian felt himself almost cowed by her voice. "These have been difficult times for all of Thedas. Even after Corypheus' defeat, many find themselves displaced, without homes or livelihoods, and are forced to rebuild in the ashes of his destruction. Andraste sees this and weeps."

The Divine turned her head to her companion. He nodded and came to stand at her side, where his calm and authoritative gaze swept over their audience, as though he meant to size them up. He noted Dorian's presence in the back of his mind.

"But we have stood firm against these trials," he said, "and we have shown the Maker that no false God will turn us from Him again. We must continue to weather the storm, to show resilience in our faithfulness, and pray – pray for the time when our Maker sees fit to return to us, and we shall know peace in His light. It's because of this ideal that the Divine and I have seen fit to open this service to all in Skyhold, so that we may all bask in reverence, and offer thanks for our lives."

"And so, we will." Cassandra lifted her arms to her flock, "Tonight, we will pray for those who never saw the war's end, the innocents caught in Corypheus' madness and the soldiers who fought for our freedom. Dragon-Slayer, will you be the first to kneel?"

Fabriel turned to the altar and lowered himself to his knees. As he recited the Chant, the worshippers that surrounded Dorian clasped their hands together and started to do the same. It was an eerie sight to see.

Cassandra began her sermon, and the service started in earnest.

* * *

They reconvened in the war room, where Cassandra made it a point to discuss the recent discoveries about Fabriel's past. He had expected it, but the questions were no less irritating. Damien watched the pair quietly near the table, prepared to intervene if need be; and beside him, Dorian kept the same promise.

"Then Solas is your father? You're elf-blooded?"

"It seems so," he said. "It was as much a surprise to me as it is to you."

"I just…I find it difficult to believe. Is there any evidence besides his word?"

"Do you think so little of me? There's evidence."

"I apologise, Dragon-Slayer. It's just so outrageous to think."

"Outrageous? A strong word to use, Your Worship."

"What word would you use?"

"Odd," he said while folding his arms, "but not unwelcome. I've spent many years without a father."

Cassandra paused for a moment. She understood weighted words when she heard them. It was more or less a challenge – would she, the Divine of a Chantry that taught free love and worship, deny him the right to a father?

"I'm pleased that you've taken the news so well," she replied, "despite all its implications. I suppose the reason I'm only hearing of this now is because it's been kept a secret."

"The advisors and I thought it best not to let that information outside of the Circle, in light of recent events," said Damien. He looked to Dorian as he spoke, and tightened his lips in apology.

"A wise choice. Not all would be as understanding as the Inquisition."

"Perhaps the sisters should teach more acceptance?" Fabriel's words came as a surprise, and Cassandra's eyes narrowed as she met his gaze. "Have I not sacrificed enough in service to the Chantry? Does blood I wasn't even aware of until a few months ago make me suddenly untrustworthy?"

"No one is denying your accomplishments as the Vessel, Dragon-Slayer, nor your worthiness for the title," she told him. "But the fact that Solas, an apostate mage who appeared with just the knowledge we needed during the war and disappeared immediately after, claims to be related to you in no small way – it's enough to make anyone cautious."

"Of course, Your Grace. Forgive me. Perhaps I've heard too much 'caution' lately."

The Divine made as though to argue with his tone, but stopped herself. She could see that his defences were up, and that any words she offered would be deconstructed to the worst effect. Fabriel was clever, but she had heard quite enough from her acolytes to assume that he was inclined towards pessimism.

"We can discuss this more another time," she concluded. "It's late, and conducting a service for Skyhold proved more tiring than I thought."

"I understand, Your Worship. Let me get Josephine to show you your quarters." Damien moved towards the door, stopped by Cassandra's laugh.

"Enough formalities, Damien," she said. "Take me there yourself. It will give us time to catch up."

The Inquisitor nodded, and after a moment the pair had excused themselves from the war room, leaving Dorian and Fabriel alone. The mage saw the moment his lover deflated; his defences lowered and his shoulders eased, and he let out a little sigh of what sounded to be relief.

"Are you alright?" he asked. His voice was soft and inviting as he moved towards him.

"It's always difficult to be in the room with a Mother. The Divine is…another realm entirely."

"If it helps, she's much more restrained now. Used to have the bite of a viper."

He smiled. "Joy." There was a beat, and then he told him, "We have things to discuss. Come, join me in the tower. I'll feel better once I have some whisky in me."

"You read my mind, _**amatus**_."


	58. The Nightingale

"We've received a letter from Erimond's family."

Dorian's voice drew Fabriel's attention from the fire. The pair were in the rotunda, protected from the weather and the eyes of awe-inspired pilgrims, and enjoying the peace that it afforded them in the middle of such upheaval. Cullen's soldiers had marched for the outpost; Leliana's spies watched for Venatori; and Josephine had sent word to the Erimonds that their secret was out – the Inquisition had one more move to play against them. It felt that, soon, it would be all over. Fabriel did not know how that made him feel.

"Good news?" he asked.

"Optimistic, are we?" Dorian replied, a note of playfulness in his voice.

"Is there reason not to be?"

The mage offered him the letter, and Fabriel took it from him with a nod. As he scanned the words, his face flickered with confusion.

"Are they bluffing?"

"They write with the confidence of every buffoon I've met in Tevinter," Dorian said. "If they are, they're not doing it knowingly."

"Then we have to figure out why the sudden boldness." Fabriel set the letter down on the table and laid his hands on either side of it, his brows knitted together as though he were trying to form a picture in his mind. "'Though we appreciate the concern in our personal affairs, I assure you that your speculation is unjustified and will not warrant further investigation.' It's so…"

"Passive aggressive? We're good at that."

"Precise." He said. "It sounds so formal – no signs of panic, but not so much as a line repeating the accusation." Dorian watched as all emotion suddenly fled his face, to be replaced by clarity. "They aren't incriminating themselves. Someone else reviewed this letter."

"That's what Leliana thinks." The mage sat in the chair near the desk, his hands clasped together and his lips ever-so-slightly tightened. "She wants to speak to you."

"Where?"

"Here's good enough."

The nightingale's voice surprised them, and as she strode into the room she walked with purpose; a woman on a mission. Fabriel straightened to meet her.

"You've read this, then."

"Josephine sent it to me this morning," she replied. "It doesn't sound like a noble family trying to hide a shameful secret."

"It reads as if the secret won't be a problem for much longer. Not one large enough to damage their reputation any further, certainly not one that would cause them to strike a deal with the Inquisition. Months ago, this would have been unthinkable."

"So what's changed? What do the Erimonds know that we don't? And who else is involved?"

"Well, an educated guess would be that the Venatori must have offered them a better deal. Livius Erimond was a high-ranking member of the Venatori, and his failure besmirched the family name."

"Which means, if the Venatori were to approach them with an offer to clear their name _and_ restore Livius'…" Dorian stood and came to his lover's side, and Leliana saw then the mark on Fabriel's shoulder, their body language towards each other.

 _Open gestures, standing close,_ she thought: _They've reconciled. What does that mean for his relationship with Solas?_

"If the Venatori told them that there was a chance to redeem themselves, I've no doubt the Erimonds would have given them whatever information they have. We either need to push them to reconsider our offer or push this mission ahead without a clear idea of what we're sending our men into."

"The Inquisitor won't want to blindly send his soldiers into a dangerous situation," said Leliana, "but we don't have the time to press the Erimonds. We need to investigate other options."

"What other options are there?" Fabriel's voice verged on a challenge, as if he wanted her to admit she had no idea – that she and the other advisors were as clueless about the situation as the pilgrims outside. It enraged her, not because he dared question their methods, but because he was right.

"We cannot risk our people's lives so carelessly," she told him. "Perhaps we don't have a clear idea on what the next step will be yet – but we rarely had one when we faced Corypheus, either."

"And still hundreds of men willingly followed the Inquisitor into danger, even at the cost of their lives," he said. The Dragon-Slayer left his lover's side to come closer to Leliana, his eyes determined, hard, but also imploring. "I don't want to see good soldiers die either. But if the Venatori have information from the Erimonds, if any of that information is useful to them, they _will_ move ahead. And you and I both know what would happen if their mission succeeds."

Leliana watched for a moment, as if gauging him for desperation or overreaction, and then her perfect posture eased.

"I will speak to Lord Trevelyan about our options," she said. "I can promise no more."

He nodded and moved aside, and with a slight nod to Dorian the nightingale left the room. Dorian watched as Fabriel's shoulders deflated and he returned to the letter on the table.

"That went well," he said.

"Did it?"

"Neither of you tore each other's throat out," he pointed out, "and you came to an agreement of sorts. She respects you."

Fabriel rolled his shoulders, "She does. I hope that that respect extends far enough for her to take me seriously."

"It does." He gestured to the letter. "What should we do with this, then?"

"Did the Inquisitor keep any intercepted messages from the war?"

"He did. One of our archivists tends the section they're kept in. Why?"

"This is a shot in the dark, but if we read some of those messages we might be able to match the writing style to known supremacists."

"You're right – it is a shot in the dark. But we have nothing better to do. Unless you want to go out and watch the masses tremble before your divinity."

He grimaced. "Let's speak to that archivist, then."


	59. These Tired Eyes kept Wondering

Fabriel studied the samples he had received from the archivist. Dorian had helped him at first, but as the night wore on and the moon climbed higher he had retired to bed, advising his lover to do the same. He had lost count of the hours that had passed since then. He hardly noticed as the silver beams that sloped in through the window started to dissipate, and the cold night air warmed ever-so-slightly to the presence of a wane and shy sunlight.

"Vhenan."

Fabriel looked up as his father entered. He leaned in his seat and held up one of the decoded letters, a soft sigh on his lips while his eyes fluttered against sleep.

"Not a single match." He said. If Solas were a lesser man, he would mistake his exhaustion for defeat.

"Not even in tone?"

"Not one I can determine, at least," he replied, "These people wrote with reverence, not arrogance. Whoever edited – or even penned, perhaps, we've no idea – the Erimonds' letter couldn't have written these."

Fabriel all but threw the letter down and rubbed his forehead, his eyes squeezed shut as though warding off a painful thought. Solas sat in the seat across from him, shuffling the notes for a cursory glance. Then he looked at his son and noticed he appeared almost as a portrait; a weary man with papers scattered before him, surrounded by reminders of an ancient and beautiful past. It was an oddly soothing sight.

"I've sent ahead a small force to the outpost," Fabriel soon told him, "Just a few of the younger soldiers – those who impressed me during their training exercises. It should be enough to protect our researchers without drawing too much attention."

"Why not send our veterans? They've more experience with the Venatori."

"Perhaps I should have, but I can't trust that their eyes wouldn't forever be on the mountains. The Venatori are a threat that cannot and will not be ignored; but the dragon is the real danger. Killing it is all I care about. I just wish we didn't have to barter with so many lives to do so."

"Making difficult decisions is one of the burdens of leadership, Fabriel."

"Lord Trevelyan is the Inquisitor. He leads this mission. I'm simply his expert."

"Perhaps he leads the Inquisition, vhenan, but that does not mean that you yourself won't lead when the moment calls for it. I believe you will slip naturally into the role."

"This is a pointless tangent, Father. The matter of what we do next is out of my hands. What I have to do now is find out if we can identify who's behind the deal the Erimonds might have made." He let out a sigh. "If that's even possible."

Solas stood as his son returned to his notes. As he circled the room, the elf touched this oddity and that; the blue cube on its small plinth and the supplies he had left when he quit Skyhold. He could admit to himself that he had missed his conversations with Damien, the hours he had spent explaining elven culture before their fall from grace.

"Do you never tire of it, Fabriel?" he asked after a while of silence.

"Of notes? All the time."

"Of not having a goal," he replied.

"This is my goal," Fabriel told him, "Travelling the world, protecting people. It's a worthy craft."

"A noble intention, perhaps, but at best it's aimless wandering. For every evil you cut down, several more spring out of the ash. Have you never wanted for more?"

"What more is there? Where there is good, there shall always be evil. If what Damien has told me of Mythal's temple, not even the ancient elves were above feuds and bloodshed."

Solas paused for a moment. He could not deny his son's claim – and some time later, he would find comfort in the thought that the rider had sought some of the truth behind his people – but it left him without much of an argument. He could not be fully deterred, however; not when so much rested on his shoulders.

Instead, he picked up a novel that laid on the small divan to the side and sat down. Fabriel glanced over his shoulder at the noise.

"No rebuttal?" he questioned as he turned back to his notes, "That's unlike you, Father."

"You've given me food for thought, vhenan, but don't think this conversation over. There's far more to learn on the path I have in mind for you, even if it's a difficult and often painful journey."

"When do I get to learn this purpose I apparently have?"

"Soon," he promised, "perhaps sooner than we both imagine. I have a feeling that we're nearing a pivotal moment, a time for you to make a decision that will affect not just you, but the world. But do try and sleep. I have much to teach you if you're to be prepared for it."

Silence reigned for a long while, until scouts and researchers appeared overhead and the murmurings of the day started in earnest. Solas draped himself across the divan to read and ignored the happenings of the spies, though every now and then he glanced at his son to note his progress. Fabriel did not wear his emotions on his face – not outright, at least – but his father had learnt to read the lines of his forehead, the glints in his eyes. He had not found much in his notes. There was disappointment scrawled on his straight lips.

A messenger arrived just as the second wave of Leliana's spies came to deliver their reports, sometime in the mid-morning. He was a young man, a boy, in fact, whose hands quivered when he approached the famed and enigmatic Dragon-Slayer. His wide eyes almost shone from under his helmet as he held out a rolled piece of parchment.

"Master Dragon-Slayer," he said, his voice trembling, "L-Lady Montilyet sent for you."

Fabriel took the summons from him, "Did she say what it was about?"

"She said to tell you that the Lord Inquisitor wants to 'discuss options'. I'm not sure what that means, sir."

As he was speaking, the Dragon-Slayer rose to his feet and nodded at him. "I know. Thank you. Solas?"

He turned his head to his father, who sat up while closing his book.

"Can you go over my notes? Perhaps there's something I missed."

"I can," he replied, "Go now. I'll send for you if I find anything."

The rider eyed him for a moment, silent and unwavering, before he nodded and gestured to the messenger. Both of them hurried out of the room as Solas sat down at his old desk.


	60. Yours, Forever

Dorian came to see his lover in the stables. He had heard through the grapevine that Damien had chosen to wait and see whether or not the Erimonds could be convinced to hand over their knowledge – an idea that sat poorly with Fabriel, and one he had desperately tried to convince the Inquisitor away from. He had withdrawn from the talks and disappeared to see his horse soon after his failed attempts.

When the mage entered the stables, however, he found them empty. There were horses, of course – the most renowned steeds and stallions of the Inquisition – but Fabriel and Onyx were curiously absent. Dorian felt a sudden pinch of anxiety, though he had no idea why.

"Dennet," he asked the stablemaster, who seemed weary of people already, "Have you seen the Dragon-Slayer?"

"Dragon-Slayer? He came in this mornin', tending to his horse. He's a good sort, I suppose. Never thought much of the stories."

"Yes, but where did he _go_ , Dennet?"

"Oh," the man peered up from where he was crouched behind a hay pile, "He's not still in there?"

Dorian let a low, slow inhale hiss through his teeth, "Did he mention where he might be going at all?"

"Nobody mentions anything but horses to me – and that's just the way I like it. The Slayer's got a fine one, too. They treat each other well."

"Lovely." The mage replied. His voice was terse, almost harsh to the ear, but Dennet either did not notice or chose not to retort.

"He did ask for something earlier, though," he said, "He wanted four sacks of horse millet, which I thought was a bit odd. That's enough for Ferelden and back."

"Did you give it to him?" he asked. It was more a demand, truly, for Dorian's heart had started to race and his mind leapt to that dark cave mouth, stuffed with the shadows of untold terror. For what reason he did not know, but it felt like an omen.

"If a man called the Dragon-Slayer asks for somethin', it's usually a good idea to give it to him. I had it ready around midday."

The mage nodded and quickly left the stables, uncertain of what to do with the information he had just received. He doubted even Fabriel would be so bold as to disobey Damien's command and head to the cave system, yet what if he was wrong? What if he had decided that he had had enough of following orders, or he felt some divine responsibility in his defiance? As Dorian went up the stairs towards the courtyard's upper level, a hard and sudden resolve overcame him:

 _I have to find out what he's doing._

* * *

Fabriel had found devastation at the outpost. It was a recent battle, if one could call it that; the bodies were warm and the blood fresh, and the scattered research was not so wet that the pages were illegible. Not even a runner had survived.

He surveyed the scene, and found several scorch marks and patches of melted snow. He realised, perhaps more slowly than he would care to admit, that whatever defences Damien had set up had not been enough; the Dragon-Slayer imagined there were more bodies littering the mountainside that bared the Inquisition's crest.

The rider pulled his horse towards the tunnel, setting a slow pace to respect the dead around them. He thought for a moment that perhaps he should alert the Inquisitor, but that would jeopardise what he had set out to do; and he had risked that enough when he left that letter in his tower for Dorian. It was but another list to write, and more names to be entered into the logs of forgotten heroes.

Fabriel turned once more to the corpses before he vanished into the cave. Staring at the fresh blood and burnt faces, he drew his hands together and murmured under his breath:

"Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls./ From these emerald waters doth life begin anew./ Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you./ In my arms lies Eternity."

It was a better tribute than most received.

* * *

Dorian had stopped at Fabriel's tower, hopeful that amongst all of that old furniture and simple comforts, he might find some hint of what he was up to.

It was not long before he did.

The Dragon-Slayer had left the letter on top of the table, weighted at one end with a small, perfectly rounded stone. He almost dared not to read it, but he knew, in his heart, that whatever it said was important, and it was undoubtedly written for him.

His hand almost trembled as he lifted the paper. It held the terrible weight of a matter which could not be put off, and when he started to read Dorian's heart came almost to a standstill.

 _ **To my dearest Dorian…**_

 _ **This is one of the most difficult letters I have had to write.**_

 _ **My time has come, and with it I fear our brief and beautiful adventure together has drawn to a close. Perhaps there was more I could have said, more I could have done. Perhaps the intervention of the Venatori has obscured the true danger from the Inquisitor's eyes. He cannot imagine the awesome power of the creature that lies beneath our feet. It would put Corypheus to shame, pale even the most murderous and legendary of enemies in comparison. It would spell death for all of us. I cannot wait for the Lord Inquisitor to needle at the Erimonds.**_

 _ **I have left for the research outpost, for the last time. I have taken with me the Beast Glass, but no one should fear that Helisma, in all her Tranquil rationality, has turned traitor. She handed me the key to Ser Rutherford's safe so that I could study it. Tell Sister Nightingale that before she has her clapped in irons, as she no doubt would do to me if she found out what I had been planning. If I do not fall in battle, I will collect the dragon's blood and continue on my Path. If I do, I pray to the Maker that the Inquisitor will bring an end to the beast, and finish the mission we started. In either case, amatus, I doubt that you and I will meet again.**_

 _ **If this is to be my final journey, I wish to pour my heart out to you, even though it cracks and shatters as I write this. Dorian, my love – you have brightened these past months, with your humour, your wit, your grace and intelligence. Would that we could have lived different lives, I know in my heart that we would have fallen in together and built a wonderful legacy. If I had a choice – if any of us had had a choice – I would have abandoned this Path, hung up my blades, and followed you to the ends of the earth. For having met you, I am a better man. A braver man. Perhaps my actions now have turned you away from me, but your love was a warm beacon in a dark life, and I am thankful that, if nothing else, I was able to bask in it for such precious little time. I love you, Dorian. And not a single thing – not a faith, a country, nor even an army – could stop me from that.**_

 _ **Farewell, my love. Live well, and I pray that you will remember me fondly.**_

 _ **Yours, forever,**_

 _ **Fabriel Herathinos-Glin.**_


	61. Odes of a Lost Man

He ate in one of the tunnels, sat next to a fire he had lit and nurtured into a comfortable, crackling flame. Fabriel was surrounded by the corpses of the camp's first occupants – Venatori mages, clad in those ridiculous outfits meant to hide their identity. It occurred to him that these people may have had families, lovers, lives, and he had torn that from them. But he had come to stop the end of Thedas. He had to remember that.

In the end, it had come down to who could move first. He could use the shadows, and the mages, for all of their skill, could not see in the dark. Fabriel rested against the boulder behind him and squeezed his eyes shut against his thoughts. Beside him, Onyx huffed and put his snout against his leg as if to comfort him.

"I miss Dorian," he said as he patted the horse's neck. "This fire would burn much brighter if he were here."

Onyx replied with a snort and a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

"I thought I would never feel pain like Cadoc again. But this? This is worse. Dorian wanted to be with me. It wouldn't have been perfect – we would have been apart a lot – but we would…we would have had each other. It's hard to watch our entire relationship fall to ash because of this."

The shadows raced across his face to the rhythm of the flames. Fabriel watched them as he thought about Dorian, trying to immortalise every detail in his mind; a picture he would treasure for life, as long or short as it may be.

"And my father," he went on, "I still find it hard to believe that I have a _father_ again. Now that I'm here, perhaps he'll find another person for that 'destiny' he kept talking about. I wish we had more time together. If I survive, it's going to be a long and lonely road ahead of us."

The rider plucked at the charred deepstalker in front of him. The fresh air of the mountains was a faint memory as he leaned close to the fire and took a deep, slow inhale of breath.

"We should sleep." He eventually said. "We should be safe enough here, for now. I'll set up traps in case. But you—" he pointed at Onyx with a playful smile, "—I want no complaints from. This might not be the Inquisition stables, but for now, it's home."

* * *

Dorian alerted the Inquisitor almost seconds after he had read the letter. It was night and the air was cold, so not many were up to see them rush to rouse their companions from their beds. Damien called forth the Inner Circle and, despite her position, Cassandra herself shed off her robes and found herself a set of polished armour. It felt wonderful to be in the middle of the action once more.

"Fabriel must have left for the outpost some time near noon," Dorian surmised after his companions had gathered. "Dennet gave him four sacks of millet around the same time. It's late now, so he has a decent head-start on us."

"He has the Beast Glass, his weapons, and his horse, so we know he intends to find the dragon himself and end it." Damien added.

"The Dragon-Slayer is no fool. He disagrees with the Inquisitor's plans and he wants for that blood to reach Weisshaupt. For now, we must consider him as we would any other enemy – hostile until proven otherwise."

"Fabriel isn't a hostile force, Cullen," Dorian rebuked, and he did so with such anger that it was almost palpable, "He feels forced into a corner and he _is_ acting a damn fool. We're not about to storm into those tunnels and kill everything we see. We need to recover him."

"Forgive me, Dorian; it's just difficult to imagine that the Dragon-Slayer would come quietly."

"He will," the mage insisted. "I'll pull him out by his ear if I have to."

* * *

Fabriel laid down on his canvas bedroll and watched as the flames of his fire continued to dance in front of him. To the side he could see the shadowed silhouette of his horse at rest, his enormous flank rising and falling with each breath, and he smiled. He wondered if he should have set him free before he went into the tunnels. But would he have left? Onyx had always followed him – from the driest stretches of the Hissing Wastes to the lush and beautiful forests of the Emerald Graves, it was always the Dragon-Slayer and his horse wandering those lost and ancient trails.

His mind faded to a different thought; a memory of earlier in his career with the Inquisition, when he and Dorian's relationship had just started. The pair were in his bed in the tower. It was late – very late, he recalled, for he could no longer hear the soldiers march outside and only the shuffles of their feet in the snow alerted him of their presence. He had turned over in an attempt to get comfortable and found himself staring at Dorian, his hair fussed and imperfect, his moustache uncombed, his eyes shut and his lips parted ever-so-slightly. It was one of the most intimate moments he could remember with him. Fabriel had reached over and wrapped his arm around his waist, pulling him closer, which had roused him.

"Hm?" he had murmured as his eyes fluttered open. "What are you doing up?"

"Just…looking."

"At me?" Dorian smiled and nuzzled his head into Fabriel's shoulder. "Can't say I blame you. I would stare at me."

"You're warm," he had replied. It was true; he felt comfortable and secure with his lover beside him, and the mage reached up and drew him down into a soft kiss as though to close what little space was between them.

"Go to sleep," he murmured. "Compliment me in the morning. I'll be able to properly revel in your adoration then."

He was alone now, in a cold tunnel with that dying flame, and no Dorian at his side to compliment or hold. Emptiness invaded his pleasant memory. Fabriel wished he could have at least held his lover once more before he left. Perhaps he would have stopped him – perhaps Dorian could have convinced him to wait, to properly think before he acted, and he would not have had to leave him at all. But he knew, in his heart, that this was his cross to bear.

The rider turned over to his back and stared up at the jagged ceiling overhead. In a few days, he would either meet his end or continue his path to another place. Perhaps he would hear of Dorian on his travels, or the mage would hear of him and know he was safe. It was a small comfort.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the heat of the fire. If he slept, he would dream of distant climes and different lives, and be content.

* * *

Dorian pulled himself up on his horse with a determined face, as the Circle around him did the same. The Iron Bull had an enormous shire that he would have to hitch before he went into the tunnels, but for now he was thankful that he would ride alongside his team and find Fabriel. He had quite a soft spot for him. Blackwall felt the same.

"Cullen," said Damien as he clambered on his horse near the gate. "Keep watch here until one of the lieutenants wakes up. Then follow us to the cave – we'll leave markers for you to find us."

"Of course, Your Worship. I'll meet you as soon as I'm able."

"Leliana will stay here to watch in case he returns in the meantime. Josephine, Skyhold's day-to-day operations fall to you to oversee. We'll be home as soon as possible."

"Yes, Your Worship. Please, find him."

The Circle reared their horses up as the iron gates clanked and clacked open. Once they were wide enough, Dorian charged through, and with shouts the rest followed him. The Iron Bull spurred his horse to match his friend's stride.

"Dorian," he called over the rising wind, "We'll find him, alright?"

"I know," he replied, "and if he's hurt, I'll kill whatever did it to him. Come on!"


	62. Venhedis

There were strange sounds further ahead. Fabriel followed them, hopeful that he would find some signs of drakes or any trail that could lead him to the dragon's lair. What he often found instead were more Venatori, more odd instruments and apparatuses, and realised as he cleared them out that without the Beast Glass those fools were improvising. If the blood was contained in a less-than-ideal version of the Glass, it could expose all that held it to the power within. It would be as catastrophic as the dragon itself.

The tunnels wound and weaved in all directions. Fabriel's horse went valiantly, but even for Onyx it was difficult to navigate the lopsided floors and random dead ends. He often thought about what would happen if he died before he even reached the lair; but that was not an option. He had survived far worse. It counted more now than it ever had before.

After a while, there was a long stretch of silence. Onyx's hooves clopped against the stone and echoed down the shadowed caves, lit only by Fabriel's torches and the ever-decreasing number of abandoned Venatori camps. The rider soothed his horse as they went.

"This is a terrible place," he said, "but we're the best men for it. I can feel it in the air. Awful things have happened here. This is as good a final ride as any."

But as he said it, a sudden hiss further in the shadows startled Onyx. The horse let out a neigh and reared up, as if some snake had slithered around his leg, and he bolted before Fabriel could calm him. The rider could see his ebon mane wildly flailing as he charged ahead, heard his whinnies of fright – and then he looked up to see the low-level ridge ahead of him, the same height as his head.

"No, no, no!" he shouted. It was too late. Onyx raced through it at breakneck speed, and Fabriel's head collided with the ridge with such a force that he was thrown off of his horse and onto the cold hard stone below.

The rider raised his head. He could see two of his horse fading in the distance, hear his far-off neighs that echoed quieter the further he ran. Fabriel reached out uselessly at the image before him.

"Onyx…" he murmured softly, "Onyx, come back…"

Then his eyes slipped closed and his head dropped as he finally fell unconscious.

* * *

The devastation the team found threw up questions at first. Vivienne wondered aloud if it was the Dragon-Slayer who had slaughtered their people – to which she received a sharp look from some of the Circle and a harsh rebuke from Dorian.

"Of course it wasn't!" he barked at her. "He's a good man. He would never do this."

"No, he wouldn't," Solas agreed. He was crouched near some of the bodies, a staff in hand, and pointed at their singed clothes and wet hair. "These are scorch marks. If not for the snow, this entire outpost would be engulfed in flames. The Venatori have been here. They're probably inside, with Fabriel."

"Then we need to hurry." Damien pulled his bow from his horse's saddle and geared himself up. Following his lead, the rest of his team did so as well – but instead of the usual excitement of a battle ahead of them, there was a sort of sadness in the air, and a deep sense of loss that felt reminiscent of their final stands against the forces of Corypheus. Far too many men and women had died in that war. No one wanted to lose Fabriel to the last of his remnants.

"Boss, that system could wind a hundred different ways and we don't know which the Slayer took," the Iron Bull pointed out. "I doubt he's left us a trail to follow. We need to be smart and figure it out."

"How do we do that? Send Cole as a sniffer dog?" Sera asked. From his spot near the corpses Solas looked down and squeezed his eyes shut – the expression of a man who was about to reveal a beloved and well-kept secret – before he opened them to stare at Damien. The Inquisitor gave him a small, quick nod.

"I need to sleep." The elf went to his horse and pulled out a small bedroll packed underneath his herbs. As he quickly swept a little area for the majority of its snow and laid it out, Blackwall pressed his hands against his knees and lowered himself beside him, an incredulous look on his face.

"How in the _fuck_ is a nap going to help us?"

"I'll use the Fade to find Fabriel," he replied. He stood to fetch a small poultice he used to induce sleep – not a deep sleep, but enough for him to question the spirits and find his son. Solas did not want to lose him for the second time.

"He isn't a mage, Solas. It's not as though the spirits will have had intimate dealings with him."

"Fabriel has a connection to the Fade most of us could only dream of," he told Vivienne, whose lips pursed as though on the edge of a grand discovery. The elf paused once he had his bed set up, wondering if he wanted to reveal that little piece of his son only he had known for so long. "We don't have time for a full explanation. Fabriel is a dreamer unlike any other. He can shape the Fade without even a second thought – it comes as naturally to him as breathing. The spirits will be well aware of his presence."

"But he's not a mage!" Sera said. "It's not right. He can't _have_ a connection or whatever-you-call-it to _that_ place."

"He does," Solas told her. "He was conceived there."

That was all the elf said before he drank his poultice. The rest of the Circle watched as he quickly fell under its effects, and in what seemed like a moment he was asleep, his eyelids twitching the further he slipped into the Fade.

Dorian put his hands on his hips and looked over at Damien.

"Damien." He said. His voice was loaded, and the Inquisitor appeared almost apprehensive when he nodded. "Explain."

Damien rolled his shoulders under the weight of all those eyes on him.

* * *

The mountain's cold and harsh terrain did not affect him so much in the Fade. Solas opened his eyes to the multicoloured sky and sensed a presence near – not his son, but someone who knew he had come to find him. When he sat up to see a spirit of compassion near the cave mouth, he smiled.

"Can you help me?" he asked. There was a faint, distant echo in his voice. "My son is lost. I need to find him."

The spirit was noncorporeal; a wisp coloured a soft pink, shaped vaguely as a human but ever-shifting and sometimes more reminiscent of a cloud. It looked at him with eyes he could not see and floated nearer to the cave.

"Follow me!" it said. Its voice was curious, neither male nor female and almost childlike.

Solas trusted it.

* * *

The system was massive and expanded further than the elf thought. He noticed there were entire stretches where the stones were not connected and seemed to drop into a deep chasm; not an entirely accurate portrayal, just enough that Solas understood the area it reflected in the real world. But the spirit knew where it was. It did not speak to him. Instead it led him down those caverns, into those deep and dense shadows, until it came to an area which felt…alive.

"He's here!" it said. Solas did not have the chance to thank it before it vanished from his sight. He was left for a moment without a clue of where to turn, and then he heard it – the distinct sound of his son's voice, echoed with a power that reminded him of the days of Arlathan.

" _ **Venhedis**_!"

He followed the curse through a small section of tunnels. It repeated a few times, accompanied by the crunch of shifting rock and rattle of tumbling stones. It was not until the tunnels opened into a sizeable cavern that he found him; his son, with his hand pressed against a wall that was slowly coming apart underneath it.

"Fabriel!" he said. The rider turned and saw him – and for one precious moment he forgot where he was, and he ran to embrace him.

"Father!" he exclaimed as he enveloped him in a hug. Solas was surprised, but responded quickly. He memorised every detail of that hug; the feel of his son in his arms, the man he had missed so dearly that it was almost palpable. When Fabriel released him, his face changed.

"What are you doing here?" the rider asked.

"We're here to help you."

" _We_?" he repeated. "Tell me Dorian isn't here."

"Of course he is. He and the rest of the Circle. We're going to stop you from embarking on this suicide mission."

"Or die yourselves."

"That won't happen," the elf insisted. "It seems you need help, regardless. You're asleep in a dangerous place, vhenan."

"I'm not asleep. I was knocked out." Fabriel returned to inspect the wall in front of them. His shoulders were tight and tense, and there was a deep furrow in his brow.

"You were attacked?"

"No," he replied. "Onyx was spooked and bolted off. He ran under a ledge and I collided into it."

"Then you need an elfroot poultice immediately. Where are you? The others and I can find you."

"You need to take Dorian and the Circle and go back to Skyhold."

"That is not going to happen."

" _I can't lose him_!"

Fabriel's response was forceful and half-desperate, more like a plea than a declaration. The power behind his voice almost jarred his father. His head fell against the stone in front of him, his hands clutching it as though it were a steadying weight, and he sighed.

"I love him, Father." He said, his tone soft and quiet. "I love him so much, it hurts. He's in every thought I have, every action I take. I would do anything for him. He only has to ask, and I would travel the entire world to be at his side. I can't have him die here. I would die myself."

Solas paused. He reached out and touched his son's shoulder, and found that Fabriel jumped at the feel of his fingers. With gentle encouragement, the rider looked at him. His eyes were full of unshed tears, as if the very thought of Dorian in those tunnels terrified him.

"He would do the same for you," he told him, softly. "That's why you have to tell me where you are. Let us help you. We can do this together."

Fabriel hesitated, uncertain that he could accept help – that he could accept the danger to the others, or that their experiences with Corypheus had hardened them enough to deal with the Great Dragon. Then he relented. His shoulders eased noticeably when he did.

"Very well." He said. "I'll show you. But first, stand back."

Solas' expression was confused but he did as he asked. When he was a respectable distance from the wall, Fabriel turned to it again. He pressed his hand against it and closed his eyes – and his father felt a queer quiver in the energy that hummed through the air.

There was a crunch. The rock seemed to shrink from Fabriel's touch and melt from sight, and beyond it revealed a terrible sight; a monster of scales and teeth, enormous and overwhelming, surrounded by what appeared to be more than a hundred drakes. Her hide was a deep red, her eyes wicked yellow, and she reared her head up in an ear-splitting roar while devouring some carcass of a dozen large druffalo. Her neck was full of muscle, and her wide wings fanned out to throw encroaching drakes away from her.

"There." Fabriel stared at her as if he had just seen the end. "I know where she is now."


	63. Pendulum

Fabriel was nursing his head when the team found him some hours later. He sat on a small boulder near a split tunnel, with his neck bent downwards and his hand pressed against a large bruise partially hidden underneath his hairline. The light of their torches roused him from his haze.

"Fabriel!" Dorian called. He surged ahead, almost toppling his companions, and all but raced into his lover's arms. Their embrace was desperate; it was as if both thought that the other would disappear the moment they let go.

"Dorian," the rider breathed. " _ **Amatus.**_ "

"We need to rest before we move on," Damien called out, though he was uncertain if either man was listening. Instead of pressing the issue, he commanded his team to start pitching their tents in what little room was available, and discussed with Cassandra a possible watch-rotation so that no one was caught off-guard.

"I'm not going to waste time being angry – but, just so you know, I'm furious."

"I'm sorry, my love. There are…I let my fear dictate my actions. I shouldn't have."

"No, you shouldn't. But it doesn't matter now. We'll face this together, and we'll win. Then I'll take full liberties in berating you."

The rider chuckled and pulled him closer to his lips, " _ **I don't doubt, amatus.**_ "

Their kiss was sweet and soft, half-shrouded in the shadows that still lingered outside of the torches' halo of light. Fabriel closed his eyes and held Dorian flush against him. He had accepted that he would never lay eyes on his lover again. But now he enjoyed the feel of his arms around his waist, the softness of his lips and the scent of his cologne. Even the occasional clunks and shuffles from the team could not distract him from their embrace.

When they parted, Dorian rested his forehead against his lover's and murmured, so quietly that only he could hear, "Never leave me again."

Fabriel's arms tightened ever-so-slightly around him. His lips pressed together and he tilted his head to the side, and in his eyes Dorian could see he wanted to tell him that he would stay at his side forever, if that was what he wanted. But the Great Dragon's lair was close. It would soon be left to fate to decide whether or not their time was up.

"I will love you until the very end," the rider told him.

"And I'll love you even after."

Fabriel was not willing to let him go yet. They swayed together in the half-darkness, murmuring sweet words peppered with kisses and the occasional quiet declaration of love. None of the team disturbed them – not even the Inquisitor, who wanted to find out what the Dragon-Slayer knew about the creature and how to stop it. There would be time soon enough. He would not pull them from a happy reunion to confront the dark reality ahead of them.

"Fabriel," the mage said after a while, "I don't want to ruin the moment, but, Solas told us. About your talent."

"My talent?" he replied. His response was almost sleepy, as if he were in a dream.

"How you can…shape the Fade."

Fabriel's jaw tightened and he nodded, though he did not pull away from his paramour. That would waste precious seconds he could spend in his arms.

"It's not what I expected to hear. It seems whenever I think I have you figured out, there's another secret that pops up and changes things."

"Are you angry?"

"No," he replied, and he kissed the edge of his nose as though to emphasise that. "But, after this is done – assuming we're both still standing, of course – I want to know everything. No more secrets. No more hearing things second-hand. I want to be the first one you think of when something hurts and you need to get it out. I want to be there for you."

Fabriel stared into Dorian's eyes with such a tender vulnerability, it was almost boyish. The rider nodded, and then, glancing at the others to ensure they were alone, he pulled Dorian a little further down the tunnel. He held his hands in his and created some space between them once he was certain no one could hear.

"Then…then perhaps this is the best time to ask."

"Ask what?" The mage queried.

"This place is hardly where I wanted to do this, but," he took a deep breath. "Dorian Pavus. Being with you has been so, so wonderful – as if I've found my missing piece. I know that even if we survive the future isn't certain for us, but…but I love you, and even if I'm a thousand miles away from you that won't change. I don't care if the entire world condemns it, or if the people revolt against me. There is no one else in the world who could take your place in my heart. If we're to be parted after this is over, then I want this to stand as my commitment to you. To us."

Dorian felt his grip tighten, and he took a steadying breath to steel himself against his nerves.

"I…" he said, then shook his head and started again. "I don't have a ring. But I have this."

Fabriel pulled his Chantry necklace from underneath his clothes and over his head. He held it limply in his hand, its tattered string and battered pendant, and sighed.

"It's not much. Definitely not your style. But I hope that it's enough, for now."

Dorian's heart hammered in his chest as his lover presented it to him. He went down on one knee, and in a distant part of his mind the mage realised that this was why he had ushered him further down the tunnel – for privacy. The team could not see them as clearly in the darkness. He wanted the moment to be between them; a memory only they shared.

"Dorian Pavus," he said. "Will you marry me?"

Dorian lowered himself to Fabriel's height. He put his hands over his and smiled at him, before he slipped the string from his fingers and over his own neck. The pendant sat beaten and proud against his fine clothes – and the rider's heart swelled when his lover pulled him in for another quiet, deep, unhurried kiss.

"I will," he murmured when they parted. The Dragon-Slayer's smile was so genuine, so unfettered in its joy that he almost melted in its beam. He pulled him close and, for a while, the pair just sat in the dark, lost in each other's arms.

* * *

"It won't be an easy fight." Fabriel told the Inquisitor and Cassandra while the team settled around a small fire nearby. The trio were off to the side in the circle of tents, where if one listened they could hear their conversation; but no one wanted to listen. Dorian sat beside the Iron Bull and Cole with a smile on his face, fiddling with his pendant as he gazed at his lover's prone posture and folded arms.

"How bad is it?" Damien asked.

"Very," he replied. "It's a strong beast. Much stronger than what I've faced before. The harem is roughly one hundred, one hundred and fifty drakes."

"We must be careful not to expend all of our energy on them," Cassandra warned. "The dragon will rely on that. If she's as old as you claim, she is ten times more cunning than her counterparts."

"That is where the Venatori might come in useful."

"When have they ever been useful?"

"If the Venatori reach the lair before we do – although it will be a small number of them – it could mean that a few of the drakes will be killed off, or at least tired out. By this point, any and all advantages we find, we must capitalise on."

"What if they kill the dragon?"

"They won't," he replied. "It's not possible with a harem that size. But if they can cut a few of them down, we have more of a chance."

"How much will it increase our odds?"

"From zero to zero-point-two. It's not a good situation."

"Then we need to strategise," said Damien. He sat down on a nearby boulder and rested his elbows on his knees, putting his hand to his chin as he gazed into the distant dark beyond them. "If we focus our efforts on the harem, we might be able to clear a path for you to reach the queen."

"We need more people than this."

"Cullen will come soon. We've left markers for him to find us. He might decide to bring a few of our soldiers with him – we sent a raven about the attack outside."

Fabriel's eyes softened. "Those were fine men and women. If I felt any doubt in leaving the Venatori to die, that would quickly solve it."

"Then we have a plan." Cassandra said. She seemed in her element, and for a moment Fabriel forgot that she was the Divine, that this armoured woman was the Most Holy, the lady on the Sunburst Throne. He was comfortable in her presence. It was an odd fleeting thought.

"But for now, we rest," Damien told them. "Cullen won't be here for a while yet, and we need a real sleep. I have the first watch."

"I can—"

"Vivienne said you needed to rest after your head injury," Damien cut him off. "Go and sleep. If there's trouble, you'll hear it."

The rider paused, considering an argument, but ultimately decided against it. His head throbbed and he wanted to crawl beside Dorian and forget, at least for a few hours, what loomed before them.

He and Cassandra departed from the Inquisitor's company and found themselves a place at the fire. Fabriel leaned against Dorian, wrapping his arm around his waist and slipping his eyes closed in sudden weariness. He felt the mage's soft lips against his bruise. Solas watched them peacefully from his spot, but did not disturb them. The elf would find another time to speak to his son.

"There's a tent set up for us," the mage pointed out quietly. "It's near the Inquisitor."

"I want one last night around the fire," Fabriel murmured. Dorian shook his head.

"It won't be our last," he half-chuckled. "We have a terrible habit of surviving things we shouldn't."


End file.
